


There ain't no Me if there ain't no You

by hellhoundsprey



Series: twinsanity!verse [4]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Twins, Child Abuse, Codependency, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hospitals, M/M, Manipulation, Possessive Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-01 14:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5208836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamps. It is recommended to read the previous parts of this verse before this.</p><p>(Not every warning applies to every timestamp. The relevant ones are stated at the beginning of the individual chapter - please check them carefully.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer '15 to spring '16. Jensen.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for this chapter: aftermath of violence, physical abuse, manipulation, stalking, codependency

Back in that flat that could as well have been his (theirs) judged by how much they had stayed here instead of across the corridor, the familiar smells get to him like a punch to his stomach. Suddenly, he can't move. Suddenly, he feels cold sweat leak from every pore of his skin.

Jensen breaks down on the floor. Everything is happening too fast, crashes into him like a freight train would.

What did he do? What the hell did he just do?

"Jen; hey, Jen, _Jensen_!" Those gigantic, warm hands tug him by his shoulders but don't reach him, not really. He just curls in harder on himself, hands gripping his skull, his hair. His throat feels hot and dry. Maybe he is screaming. His forearms are wet where they are pressed against his cheeks.

_I left him, I left him, I am the worst, I left him, I left him, how could I DO this?!_

Maybe he says it out loud, maybe he doesn't. When he can think straight again, he's exhausted and still on the floor. He turns his head, looks up. Jared. Jared is here. He got him. He picked him up, saved him. He's back with Jared. And Jared is smiling. Small and warm and only for Jensen, with love and concern and everything Jensen could ever ask for in those eyes.

Jensen feels the tears return and tugs that hand in his own closer to his chest. He hears, "It's gonna be alright," and wishes he could believe in that.

In a few, Jared will fix them steak and a nice bottle of wine in celebration of their reunion. He will hold Jensen as if nothing had ever happened, as if the past two weeks had only been a product of Jensen's head. But the sad truth is - they weren't. They had happened, and they're real.

\---

It's like a dream. Maybe he's still dreaming. Maybe when he opens his eyes the next time, he'll be back with Dean, back in Lawrence with him and Dad and the Impala. But no matter how often he blinks, Jensen remains in this room, in Jared's bed, with Jared's warm skin under his palm, the soft curls of his chest hair.

Back there, deep in that mess, all Jensen could think of was to get back here, home, to Jared; to a regular life, to safety and warmth. Everything seemed like a chore, torture; every second apart from Jared like being electrocuted. The pain had made him weak and receptive for old patterns - Dean had been too happy to help him fall right back into them. Suddenly, being here, feeling all this bliss and love doesn't feel right anymore. He's not worthy of it.

Jensen feels dirty.

\---

Thanks to Jared's help, Jensen's enrolled back into his old high school in a matter of twenty four hours. Thank God. Jensen would probably lose his shit if he had nothing to busy himself with, especially with Jared working fulltime in his office.

It's the strangest thing to get into the school bus on his own, to walk the halls of the school alone, to climb the stairs and enter the flat - alone. He's alone now. Dean is not here. Dean is back where he left him. Alone.

He thought it'd be nice after all that happened, after the constant control and presence of his brother that didn't give him a single inch to breathe in. But it isn't. It's like someone ripped half of his self from him. He misses Dean, badly. But there's no going back now.

Jensen knows there will be nothing to expect for the first few days; no phone calls, no nothing. It's Dean's way of punishment - absolute silence. But Jensen can imagine the next steps, and he needs the short pause in between now and then to brace himself for that storm after the silence. He's never done this, _they_ have never done this; something this harsh, this ultimate. Jensen still isn't sure if this is really the right way to go. All he knows is that it couldn't have continued the way it was.

He had never seen his twin like that. Yeah, sure, they both used to have their anger issues... but they always took them out on lifeless objects or during Dad's training - never on other people, never on _each other_. Jensen should have known something wasn't right from the very beginning of all this. The way Dean looked at him when they were with Jared, how he got more and more clingy, the more and more cruel ways he tried to drive a wedge between Jared and him... And then the Wii. Dean apologized afterwards and it looked genuine enough for Jensen to brush the whole issue aside.

But then his _phone_. Jensen never would have thought Dean would go through his phone without his permission. They are close, yeah, but there's a line, isn't there? And the fire in his eyes when he smashed it to the ground, the shaking in his entire body when he pointed down at it and growled, "I _said_ : FORGET ABOUT HIM."

Only now Jensen really allows the shocks to take over. He has trouble sleeping and it gets worse and worse with each night that brings him closer to the end of Dean's patience. Of course, Dean expects Jensen to apologize, to come running back to him. This is how they always used to end fights up to now. In the end, they would return to each other. They never parted, not really. The other brother always was the one thing they would be able to depend on, the only thing that would remain no matter how often they moved cities, no matter what shit they went through.

And Jensen broke it. He broke it.

One evening (five days), Jensen mutters over dinner that, "If a... If someone calls and you don't recognize their number, then..." He avoids Jared's eyes. "Better not answer it." From the corner of his eyes, he sees Jared hesitating before giving a slow nod.

\---

"... Jay?"

"Hm...?"

"I, uh. I need to... I have to tell you something." A pause, a shuffle. Jensen looks for eye contact. "Back in Lawrence, I... I did some things that..." He leaves the sentence hanging between them.

Jared just looks at him, sleepy and calm. It's almost been two weeks now. Two weeks, and Jensen still couldn't bring himself to tell much about Lawrence. Jared didn't ask, not once. He's giving him as much time as he needs, Jensen realizes, and he's so generous with his patience that it's breaking Jensen's heart even harder. It's not unimaginable that Jared figured out by himself that something was going horribly wrong with Dean, not after Jensen's completely wrecked phone call in more or less the middle of the night, the panicked hitch in his voice with each "please pick me up" that he peppered over every half of a sentence.

But this, he doesn't know. Doesn't know about what Jensen did. That Jensen's just as terrible as his brother, that he's despicable scum that in no way deserves to be here with Jared, in Jared's bed, in Jared's arms.

"You don't have to if you're not ready yet," Jared says. His fingers span over Jensen's shoulder, his arm a warm weight around his neck.

Jensen cringes from it all. He doesn't deserve it. Nothing of it. "We... I... I did horrible things." His throat is painfully blocked, as if the words wouldn't want to come out themselves. But they have to. He owes Jared this honesty. Whatever he ends up getting for it, he'll have to accept it.

When Jared wipes his thumb over Jensen's cheek, it feels wet. After a shaky breath, Jensen starts talking.

He tells him about the pot he smoked (way too much) and the cheerleader (he was such a bastard with her; dumped her like a used tissue) and the couple from the theater club. "An'... an'... there was this... Oh God, Jay, I don't even know _why_..."

"Shhh." Jared's arms become tighter around him and softly rock him back and forth.

It only makes Jensen sob harder. "He looked like you, I swear; he looked just like you. I tried not to, but whenever I looked at him, I jus'... I saw _you_ , an', an' I missed you so _bad_ , an' he was right there, an' we... It- it was Dee's idea, b-but I... He was just a kid! We fucked a KID!"

The shushing stops then, but the rocking continues. Jensen desperately cranes his neck in order not to lose the eye contact in the uncomfortable position. He's trembling from the exertion.

"His eyes, I... He was tall, real tall, so we thought he'd be maybe be around our age, but he was only a kid, fuckin' _fifteen_... We shoulda realized it earlier, but even when he told us, Dean was just so... so...! And I let him, Jay, _I let_ _him_ ; and I just... I went with it... And he was scared, I _knew_ he was; he had no idea what was going on, and we just... God, how could we do this... How could _I_ do this? All I could think of was you, every time, all the time; I imagined it was _you_...!"

They hold on to each other in Jared's silence and Jensen's sobs. After bottling all of it up inside of himself, he had the illusion that once he'd let it go, it'd maybe lessen the pain. Now, it reminds him of having ripped open a wound. Memories he tried to keep away flash before his eyes. In retrospect, Jensen can't imagine how he could ever do something like this - not only Sam but generally sleeping around again after Jared, even though Sam surely is the cherry on top of this mess. How could he have been this desperate, this numb to go through with it? He feels sick.

After a while, Jared hums into his ear. "Have you told him that you're sorry?"

He shakes his head.

"You should."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Dean's with him," Jensen croaks.

\---

"Padalecki."

Jensen's pen comes to a halt over his textbook. He's got his back turned to where Jared picked up the phone.

"... Hello? ... _Hello?_ "

He keeps his eyes on the paper and listens to Jared hang up.

Silence looms heavy over them before Jensen says, "That was him."

\---

They go from blocking numbers to completely unplugging the phone. Jared has to get a new cell for his business calls and Jensen can't apologize enough. His law office only just started a few months back and every disturbance could mean the ruin of it. Jensen's responsible for this, and of course it falls back on Jared now. Dean knows exactly where it hurts Jensen the most.

There is no way to turn back though, no, he just can't. Yes, he misses his brother, yes, he feels like shit to do this to him, to Dad - but this is the only way. It's his own life, isn't it? He should live it the way it's best for him, how he's the happiest, safest. He has to stay strong. He can't give in.

Jared only tells him about the calls upon request and is obviously uncomfortable with it. He says that his brother doesn't sound like himself, that he can barely make out what Dean is trying to say; he's muttering, slurring. Sometimes he's crying when he calls and other times he's screaming so loud that Jared has to hold the phone away from his ear in order not to get tinnitus.

Jensen listens to it all with his eyes pinned to nowhere in particular. It's like tons and tons being unloaded onto his chest. He thinks of unfocused eyes, hitching voice, missed hours at work; of that silver case and the first sight of a package of pills in it. It explained so much and yet so little. Why hadn't Dean told him about it? Why did he feel the need to take this stuff? When they started with pot, they both loved it. There was nothing too wrong about it, nothing harmful. Dean began regular smoking when they still were here, with Jared. But pills? _Pills_? That started in Lawrence.

He should have noticed the early signs. He should have been there for his brother, should have asked him how he's doing, what's going on, what he's thinking about - just like they used to do it. But it seemed impossible to return to that after Jared, after getting a taste of what _real_ _love_ feels like. They are brothers, after all, nothing more and nothing less. Very close brothers, yeah, sure; but even the sex always was something different with Dean. It wasn't like what he felt like with Jared, not even with the flings. More than anything, it was comfort. Like a warm bath, like coming home. It never had anything to do with love. At least that was what it was to Jensen - what he thought was obvious, common sense.

Turns out it wasn't. Not for Dean.

"'I need him, Jay, don't take him away from me, I'm begging you', closely followed by... by stuff like 'I'll kill myself if he doesn't come back, tell him that, tell him what he's doing to his brother'... Jensen... I don't know what's going on with him, but. But this has _long_ passed the definition of 'harmless'."

He doesn't allow Jared's eyes to find his own.

"... If you want, we could start filing a restraining order."

"N-no!" He almost jumps to his seat from the chair but falls back once he realizes it. "No, he's... he's my brother, I... I can't do this to him." Again, he looks away. His chewed-down fingernails scratch the back of his hand. "I'm. Maybe... maybe he'll give up. Not yet. Thanks, but. But not yet. Let's wait."

There is not much hope left that it will work out like that, but it's enough.

\---

Jensen is still shaking so violently that he can barely get the front door open, doesn't remember how he got back home - and throws up into the kitchenette's sink. When Jared rushes home half an hour later, he finds him on the floor, again crying, still shaking.

He's hefted onto the sofa, gets a glass of water to his lips that he can't finish without heaving again, all over Jared's suit and the carpet and oh God, how did it come to this?

"I should've listened t-to you, I- I should have-"

"Jen, it's okay, calm down; calm down. You're safe. I've got you."

"He- At, at the school, he- Why does he DO this?! What the fuck HAPPENED to him?! I don't even KNOW him anymore!!"

He pushes or gets pushed into that wide chest, into his own vomit but that doesn't matter as long as he's held, as long Jared's here to ground him, to let him ride out the panic. Jensen feels himself hyperventilating between sobs and coughs full of spit and anger and guilt and bile, tries to concentrate on the soft pressure of Jared's hands on the back of his head, the soft kisses to his hair, the deep humming of Jared's voice.

"We'll work this out. I've got you. I promise we'll work this out. You don't have to be afraid of him. We'll work this out."

_Dean lost weight. His cheekbones are sharper under his skin, the grip of his fingers is not only powerful like Jensen remembers but so much more bony and... violent. Desperate. "Come with me, Jen," his brother croaks, "Come home. With_ me _, Jen! Home!"_

_"I'm- I'm not-" He tries to escape that hand, but it won't budge. Jensen feels his fingers go numb, his stomach drop. No. No. He doesn't want to go back there. Not there. Not with Dean, not away from Jared._

_"Yeah," Dean huffs, and his mouth explodes in a smile, "Yeah, Jen, c'mon, alright? Jus' you 'n me."_

_"You- You're_ hurting _me!"_

_Of course they are not alone on the schoolyard. Dean doesn't seem to care at all about the audience. One of Jensen's classmates closes in on them, expression caught between fear and confusion. "Hey, stop it!"_

_"GET AWAY!!" Everything spins and suddenly he's got Dean's arm around his neck. The pressure on his windpipe makes it hard to breathe and he tries to break free, but it's no use. "HE'S MY BROTHER; LEAVE US ALONE!! FUCK OFF, FUCK OFF!!" Dean is a hotcold wall against his back, hard and sweaty and nothing like Jensen remembers him to be, like it used to be._

_Maybe they stopped being brothers a long time ago - and Jensen let it happen, just let it happen and happen and this is what it all boiled down to._

_His brother would never act like this. He would never sound like this, would never use this voice, would never put a hand on him._

_Then, Jensen remembers the shove, the fall. The Wii and the phone and the sleepless nights with a body tucked tight around him and his heartbeat in his throat._

_Jensen remembers what Dad taught them about escaping a choke hold._

_His elbow comes up, disconnects Dean's grip; he grabs Dean's wrist, extends the arm. Dean is too perplex to resist any of it. When his knee hits Dean's stomach, hard, all Jensen can think about is that his twin brother who he is beating up is completely helpless with his system full of drugs._

_Dean is on the ground, and Jensen runs._

\---

The printed sentence in his hand doesn't stir much in him. Jensen stopped feeling anything in this particular section of his heart. It's easier this way. Not better, but easier.

\---

A padded envelope arrives in the mail, somewhere around their birthday. Jensen doesn't want to open it at first. But again, he is weak. Again, there is that spark of hope that maybe there's something in there that will help him ease that pain, the hole that was ripped open from the loss and hasn't closed since that hasty morning between attic and Jared's car, the phone call and the open road.

Dean's necklace slips into his outstretched palm.

Jensen closes his eyes.

In a few minutes, he will have the presence of mind to prod around inside the envelope for a note. He will find one. It will read:

_Dear Jensen._

_It's Sam. Proof: You waved at me in the cafeteria the day you sat with the theater guys for the first time. He doesn't know I'm writing to you, I swear. These are_ my _words, mine alone._

_I am so sorry for what he did. I do my best to watch out for him, but it's difficult. But I promise I'm doing my best. I'm taking care of him. Your dad says hi._

_It was tricky smuggling this letter out without Dean's notice, so if you ever want to talk, call 0111913xxxxxx. It's my mom's old phone and he doesn't know it exists. I hid it at school and I will check it whenever I can and call you back. Don't forget to turn on your answering machine._

_S. W._

_PS: He threw this away but I think you should have it._


	2. '16 and '17. Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: drug addiction, prostitution, rape, underage, suicidal thoughts

All pattern there is in this blur is getting up as soon as the phone rings with the alarm, taking a shower, somehow making it to work, then signing off again in the afternoon. After that, there's nothing. No darkness, no air - just pure, holy emptiness.

For more pills, he needs more money, but that's okay since they are the only things that make everything better, the only things that really make him _forget_. He hates to take them (they drove him away from Jen, them, them, only _their_ damn fault) but what can he do? Sex isn't enough, no matter how much, no matter with whom. There are many and Dean manages to drive them away after he's done with them - everyone but that one damn boy.

Sam does his best, he really does. The kid sticks around for longer than Dean would have thought his self-respect would let him. At this point, Dean doubts Sam even _has_ any. He listens to Dean babble all night long, to his crying ( _pathetic_ ); holds his hand and wipes the sweat from his forehead as if he had a sweet, innocent fever instead of a self-inflicted bad trip. He spreads his legs, too, whenever Dean tells him to. Dean hates him for it. He's just a punching bag, nothing else; can't he _see_ that? But no matter how hard Dean pushes his limits with the kid - he doesn't complain, not once. The only thing that happens is that his hand is being gripped tighter and that those slim little lips hum their daily repetition of "I won't leave you".

Okay. So be it.

For his "sweet sixteen", Dean gets the birthday boy a fake driver's license through one of Dad's contacts. Poor Sammy almost pisses himself over the excitement of being taught how to drive behind Baby's steering wheel. Yeah, he better. It's a damn _honor_. At least he's smart enough to understand that, that special place Dean gives him.

Of course, he doesn't decline driving them to a club a little outside of town a few days into the training, and he does good. Dean fixes his hair in the wing mirror. "You ever been to a party? Eh, of course you haven't. Anyway. We're gonna go to this party now, an' we're gonna _enjoy_ ourselves." He grins to his left where Sam can't believe his luck. Or maybe is nervous. Or scared. It doesn't really matter. Dean wraps his hand around Sam's knee and gives it a sweet squeeze. "Dun worry, I'll take care'a you."

Inside, the barkeeper doesn't look twice at Sammy's baby face and fidgeting. Dean gets them drinks and presses Sam's into those bony hands. "Drink," he orders. Sam chokes on the first sip and Dean laughs. " _Drink_ ," he repeats.

Under Dean's watchful eyes, Sam finishes the first as well as the second cup he gets him. There's a first hint of protest when Dean gestures for a third, but all Dean has to do is throw a firm look and a "Don't be a baby" to make that trembling lil' mouth snap back closed. Those eyes droop and droop and after not even one hour in here, Sam is too wasted to stand straight. "I wanna dance," Dean announces under his smile and tugs him along.

The music is loud and the bass makes his tongue drum between his teeth. Sammy's mouth tastes like tropic juices and his tongue is a dead, drenched thing to suck on. Those fingers try to hold on to Dean's shirt but just won't close. There's cold sweat under his hands and when Sam throws up all over the floor and the other guests, Dean almost falls right into it with how hard he has to laugh. "C'mon, let's get outta here." He wipes that chin, shoulders that kid. Security is not as fast as him on two points of molly and they're outside and in the Impala before anyone knows.

Sam throws up some more into the anonymous curb they stopped against. His little back heaves and heaves under Dean's palm, groans and sobs and turns his insides out onto the deserted street. It feels good to witness it, even better than shoving his dick into that throat until Sam's little fists knock against his stomach. Sam doesn't let Dean tie him up since that one time he combined it with his deep throating lessons, but that's as far as consequences will go. It's Sam's own fault that this is happening, really.

Back home, he lays the shaking body out on their mattress and strips it bare. Sam's tongue is too heavy to articulate his pleads correctly so Dean saves them a whole lot of effort by just pushing his hand over that mouth.

The next morning, Sam says he doesn't want to go to parties with him anymore. When Dean asks him to that same evening though, the kid can't bring himself to say "no" anyway.

Dean doesn't care. He simply doesn't _care_ , not a single fucking bit. The world shall _burn_. It's not of importance. Jen is gone. Gone. He's ended it with the last nail to this coffin being that _sentence_. Yeah, he really had the nerve to actually do that; to make it _illegal_ for Dean to contact him. How fucked up is that? That shouldn't be possible. That little rat. If that's what he wants, fine. Fine! Dean doesn't need him. Who would need a brother like that, one who betrays and discards his family like that? He left. He threw them away. Not only Dean, no, Dad too; their lives, their family, everything they gave up to this point, everything they fought for. It doesn't mean anything to him. Maybe never _did_ mean anything to him.

Once, the mere thought of taking that necklace off of his neck made him churn in agony. Now, it's like someone let him off a leash. He's free now. Free. ~~On his own~~. Free.

\---

Waking up sober on a Sunday morning is the worst. Every cell of his body seems to ache. Sam is next to him and holds him safe and warm, but it's not Jen, is it. It's never Jen since he left. Since Dean failed to keep him here. Since Dean failed.

Sam wipes his tears away before he even knows himself that he's crying. He buries himself in that tiny chest, the sheets that lost their scent a long time ago. It's summer again. Almost a year. An entire damn year.

"Shhh, it's alright, you'll be alright. I'm here, Dean. I'm here."

His sob feels like barbed wire in his chest. He doesn't deserve this, these hands, those lips, this kindness. Dean hates himself for getting it even more than he hates Sam for providing it.

The kid shouldn't be here. He's not _supposed_ to be here. Dean's supposed to be alone and miserable and choking on his own vomit. That's what he deserves, and maybe what he wants, too.

But Sam won't let him kill himself. And Dean hates him for it.

\---

"Yo, wanna make five hundred bucks?" Sam looks at him like he just said the stupidest thing ever. Duh. Definitely not the _stupidest_ thing he has heard Dean say. Dean just rolls his eyes, his hand still extended towards the kid. Again, the music is loud, again, the lights are low. Money is too precious to waste it on drinks for Sam who doesn't want them anyway, that ungrateful brat. "C'mon, we'll split it fifty-fifty, alright?"

Remaining hesitation. "How?"

"Okay, listen, Sammy. There's this- there's this guy, that one over there." He points across the bar where he just came from. Sam frowns a little at the sight and it makes Dean want to explode. "He'll pay five hundred for watching us fuck."

"What?! NO!" Dean has to get a hold of that arm before Sam bolts from his seat. The last thing he can use right now is a scene in front of all those people, and, well, a lost offer of five hundred dollars. "Ow! Let _go_!"

"C'mon, five hundred, man!"

"No! I don't wanna do that!"

"You're-" He snaps his mouth shut, grits his teeth behind pressed shut lips. "Listen, kiddo, I've had it up to HERE with you, you hear me?! This is easy money, you don't even have to DO anything! Close your eyes if you want, imagine it's just us. You won't even know he's THERE, for fuck's sake!"

Nothing, a weak tug on that arm. Dean lets him go because he knows how to play this. "... Only watching?"

"Only watching." Now, the smile. Excellent. Sam's expression immediately relaxes. "Only watching, Sammy. Only me fuckin' you nice 'n good, jus' like you like it, an' we'll get five hundred bucks for it. You ever earned that much money, huh?"

"... No," Sam mutters of course.

"See? Yeah. It's gonna be alright." An arm around those shoulders. Deal's sealed. "I've got you." A kiss to that hair for good luck earns him a shy hand at the small of his back. "Don't worry, I've got you. It's easy, I promise."

It's a good thing that Dean is as much of a perfect liar and performer as Sam is easy to operate. He can feel the rise of that heartbeat under Sam's thin frame when they cross the room and make their way through the inconspicuous side door, but those legs don't fail to carry him. Good.

"Cash first," Dean demands as the guy closes the door behind them. The bills travel from pocket to pocket and the guy points at the pool table. Dean just nods, undoes his fly on the way to Sam who's standing there like a deer in the headlights.

More show. He can do more show. "Shhh, Sammy." It's a purr, a soft brush of fingertips over that cheek, another around his flank. The kid is shaking. "I told you, it's alright. I've got you. It's only you 'n me. Only you 'n me, remember? Close your eyes, baby. Yeah, that's it." He guides him to the edge of that table, bends him over it, runs his hands under that shirt and jacket, urges that chest down onto the emerald green. "Listen to my voice. You're doin' so good for me." Soft panting, an almost unperceivable nod. "Alright. Good boy. Now lose those for me, baby." He tugs on those jeans and Sam actually manages to open the fly and belt. Dean helps with tugging everything down until it's trapped around Sam's sneakers. Dean smiles. "Very good."

Every drag of his hands makes Sam relax. He's outlining those flanks, the tiny hips, the swell of his butt. To touch him like that never fails to make Dean aroused, that's for sure. He gives a lazy hump of almost halfway-hard cock against the sweaty-hot crease and makes Sam flinch. "Feels so good, Sammy. Nice 'n hot, jus' for me, hm? Wait, here." A single pack of lube, half on Sam's and half on his own fingers. "Gonna help me work that ass open?" There's no answer, only coy, tapping fingertips. "Yeah, here. Right here." He gives the first. Sam's body doesn't give him a single inch. Shit. Dean doesn't have the patience for this. When Sam's hand hesitates, Dean helps pressing that digit in. Sam jolts. Their fingers are trapped inside and it almost hurts. The pressure is intense. "C'mon, baby, relax for me. Relax, alright?" Dean twists his finger, forces another in when Sam fails to mirror the effort. They don't have all day, for fuck's sake. "That's it. Good boy, Sammy. Damn, that's tight. Wondrin' if my dick's even gonna fit, huh?" He leans over, drapes over Sam's back, kisses that neck, tastes sweat. "But we both know it's gonna, don't we?"

Dean hooks his fingers and pulls until Sam keens into the green fuzz of the pool table. Yeah, that's gonna work. Somehow. He'll _make_ that work. Sam pushes his hips out, too. He probably wants this to be over with, but in the end, Dean couldn't care less about his motivation. He slicks himself, gives a short side glance over to the row of chairs next to the door. The guy sat down and is now jerking himself in the shadows. Yeah. Watch closely, pervert. When he had asked for Sam's age, Dean could tell by that vacant, hungry shine in his eyes that he was no cop looking to bust some minors. No. Dean had practically _felt_ that throb in the guy's pants when he said "sixteen" and added a grinning "let me have it over a year ago". It's easy money because Sam is an easy product, really.

Poor baby tries hard not to struggle on the push in but breaks for a whimper eventually. That's not too bad; the guy probably gets off on it just as much as Dean does. Sam likes it too though, to be loud and to squirm and to be held tight. He never fails to get at least hard, if not come hands free on a rough fuck. It's pathetic. "Good boy; doin' so good, baby." Dean bottoms out, rocks in place. Sam's ass flutters around him, squeezes him on the edge of uncomfortable, but the lube will get them out of this safely. One hand on the dip just above Sam's ass and one around his hip, Sam melts into the fuck just as easy as if there really was no one in the room but them. At one point, he even starts moving back, creates a nice smack when their bodies slam into each other. Dean groans and fucks harder, deeper, whatever gets Sam going; cause whatever gets _Sam_ going gets the _customer_ going.

More and more praise, a hand on his dick, and Sam is done for, comes all over the front of the pool table. He's easy like that. Dean couldn't have imagined a better toy. The convulsions around his dick eventually tip him over the edge, too. He rides it out with his head thrown back, lights flashing in front of his closed eyes. Five hundred. Five hundred. Come on. Five hundred.

He pulls out, steps to the side - lets his hand rest on Sam's back, holds him down like that before Sam realizes he's even doing it. The guy is quick and on his knees behind Sam in the bat of an eyelash. Sam yelps and thrashes when those hands go for the cheeks of his ass, that mouth for his dripping hole. Dean presses down harder, spares the other hand for Sam's head. "Sh-sh-sh-shhh, Sammy, shhh, just a second, c'mon." Sam probably yells something like "no" and "don't" and "stop" but Dean doesn't exactly care to listen. His foot on the pants between Sam's feet keeps him from kicking his legs at the guy. Who gets off on sucking other people's spunk from little boys' asses anyway? Sick fuck. Dean doesn't look where he works his mouth.

The guy retreats and Dean doesn't let Sam stand up before he got a "I will behave myself" out of him. It takes a few tries, but eventually Dean gets what he wants. He _always_ gets what he wants; especially with Sammy. The guy exits with a shy "thanks" and Dean just snorts his "whatever, man" while Sam can't get his pants up fast enough. He's trembling again and the little peek Dean gets of his face under all that hair reveals dripping wet eyes. Dean groans, rolls his eyes. "Oh come _on_ now! It wasn't _that_ bad, was it?"

And then, Sam turns around. Really turns around and really looks straight at Dean with eyes so full of hate that Dean suddenly but knowingly braces himself for what is to come. Finally. Finally, he broke the kid. He's gonna say it now. He's gonna say "fuck you" and "I don't wanna see you ever again". Strangely enough, the thought makes Dean smile.

"You're the WORST," Sam wails, "you know that?!"

He lets himself drop onto the pool table, snickers to himself. Yeah. Yeah, he knows that alright. "Maybe?" he muses.

"FUCK YOU, DEAN!!"

And he's gone. Just like that. Unfortunately, together with Baby's keys, as Dean notices after some minutes. But that's alright. The cash is in _his_ jeans.

Dean will return in the forenoon, wasted and tired out of his mind, empty and calm. Behind the door to his room, Sam will sit on the mattress with his arms around his knees and regret on his face.

"I thought you died," he whispers.

"An' _I_ thought you were _done_ with me." Dean strips until he's in his shorts, falls right next to Sam. The beddings smell like them. Not Jen and Dean - Sam and Dean. Like Sam. Like his little, good Sam.

A soft hand comes down on his head, brushes through his hair.

"Takes _way_ more to do that, you jerk." Sam's voice is tiny, so soft like a lullaby, raw as if he cried all night. Which he probably did. Cried for Dean. For him. For scum like him. "What I said earlier... I didn't mean it," Sam mutters into the pillows.

Dean doesn't deserve this. None of this.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

\---

Josh peels a little plastic bag from his jeans' pocket. Dean licks his lips. That's easy a hundred points right there. Shit. "Dude, you know I'm broke," he laughs. Shit. _Shit_.

"Yeah, heard you the first time. But you know, Dean, I mean - come on. We're coworkers, right? I thought 'hey, I can be a Samaritan every once in a while', eh."

Yeah. Sure. _That_ ass? Never. Doesn't even stick up for him to the boss. But he's got that bag and for what it's worth it could as well be one of Dean's kidneys. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Josh grins, leans back on the couch. He pets his crotch. "One blow, one pill."

Dean laughs again, rocks back on the floor. "Why not ten for a fuck?" He doesn't have to think twice for this proposal. He's done it several times now. Desperate times and so on and so on. With his looks, there rarely is anyone who dodges a deal like this...

... and neither does Josh, of course. "Oh, _now_ we're talking, faggot." Yeah, _who's_ the faggot here, though? It's not like Dean hadn't noticed the guy drooling over him since the first day he set his foot into the damn garage. If Dean had known the guy was involved in the scene, Josh probably would've gotten lucky much much earlier. Josh unzips his jeans. Dean doesn't budge, doesn't look away from those eyes. He can do "slut". He can do "virgin". Whatever will get him to those pills. "Shit, man. Didn't know you were swinging that way." Dean tries not to roll his eyes.

It's been too many hours since his last trip and yeah, damn, his pockets are empty. Damn mortgage. Damn gas. Dean gets to his feet, already a little sway in him from the after-work beers they shared. Underneath the jeans, he's commando. He steps out of them, gestures into Josh's lap where the guy is jacking his growing erection. "So, what? How'd you want it?"

Josh licks his lips. "Ride me."

"Sure. You, uh. You got a condom somewhere? Lube?"

Josh flashes his teeth. "Lube's in the bathroom. Five more if you lemme get in there bare."

"Bathroom it is," Dean nods. Five more. Okay, five more. Is that worth it? There's no big risk, is it? What could go wrong? Five more is a good price. He raids the drawers until he finds what he's looking for, returns to the living room. Josh is already into it and it's only his _fist_. Yeah, sure, he's totally got "a girlfriend". Two fingers and a reasonable amount of slick go straight up his ass. It's a little awkward, standing in the middle of a room like that with his own fingers up inside him, but eh, beggars can't be choosers, right? "Ready when you're ready," he grunts. Josh waves with his dick. "Bastard," Dean laughs.

He squats over Josh's lap, secures himself with his hands on the backrest and sinks down. Ah, God; he's almost forgotten what _that_ feels like. Shit. But he's gotta do it. It's a little of this or being sober until the next paycheck arrives. And, yeah, a sore asshole definitely is the better choice here. Dean sucks his lips between his teeth, screws his eyes shut, ignores Josh's hot breath against his neck, his chin. This sucks. He's not even remotely hard. "G-gimme one," he finally chokes.

The pill finds its way through his lips, down his throat. Dean pumps his hips up and down, just up and down, over and over and over. The molly won't hit before this is over but at least it'll smooth out the aftermath.

Of course, Josh comes rather fast. But a fuck is a fuck is a fuck. "That'll be fifteen points, my good sir," Dean grits. The sensation of warmth running down the insides of his thighs disgusts him. He wipes himself with his bare hand.

"Uh, fourteen, you rip-off. But wait, lemme tell you something." And Josh whips out his phone. "I've got a few friends. _Lonely_ friends. What about I call them over and you get, hm, let's see... the whole bag?"

Dean stares at Josh, the little piece of plastic containing over a month's worth of sweet euphoria still peeking out of his jeans' pocket. More come seeps from his ass and his fingers twitch. Shit. "... How many 'friends' are we talkin' here?"

"Well, it's a whole bag, kid. It ain't for free."

"... Shit." He sniffles, wipes his nose, his forehead, paces the room. He shouldn't. He really really shouldn't, should he? But... the entire _bag_? He turns on his heels, throws his arms into the air. "Shit man. Okay. Alright. Yeah, alright. I'll do it." Josh congratulates him on the "smart deal" but Dean doesn't really care to listen. With his eyes casted downwards, he searches for his jeans, his smokes, flops down next to Josh and his stupid phone and lights himself a cigarette. His stomach feels weird.

Josh drops the precious bag into Dean's lap. "You better take more than one for what's coming."

Dean pops three.

When the door opens for the first time, he's through with his ninth beer for this evening, his fourth smoke. The molly hasn't kicked in yet. Dean watches the guys approach without moving a muscle, without closing his splayed-open legs. Show no fear.

"Woah, dude. Where'd you find _that_ one?"

Dean frowns. "This a zoo o' somethin'?"

They laugh. "It can _talk_!"

"Yeah, well sweetheart, we ain't here for a chat though."

He tries a sneer. "Oh, so this isn't book club?"

"Very funny."

He's surrounded by four guys, around Josh's age, maybe a little older. He can do four... he guesses. They get their dicks out and it's strange to be in this scene he has witnessed so many times in porn. In a very fucked up way, this is almost funny.

They're happy with his mouth for a while and don't make a secret out of it. They can say whatever they want though, Dean doesn't care. They could talk about his mouth or his eyes or the weather or his dead mother and he wouldn't care. This is a job, and they're gonna enjoy it if he's into it or not. They flip him over on his stomach, elbows on the armrest. Dean's mouth is occupied again immediately, and one gets ready behind him. He jolts at the sudden and deep thrust, pulls his head back to gasp for air. "SHIT! Hey, what about protection, you assholes?!"

"Hey, you said it was alright, remember?"

"I didn't-"

"Oh come on, princess, your ass isn't worth _that_ much. Bare or nothing."

The fuck already makes his teeth rattle. Shit. It hurts. It really fucking hurts, even after all that beer. "F-fuck, I- A-alright, alright; w-whatever!"

Panic. Yeah, he remembers now. That turmoil in his stomach means _panic_.

Wow. He hasn't felt that in a long time.

When the molly finally peaks halfway through the third fuck, Dean is _so_ ready to shed a tear of joy. Finally. It's been so long. Way _too_ long. His knees stop hurting from the chafing, his jaw from being forced too wide. The throbbing in his ass turns into warm waves of glowing heat. Shit. He could do it forever like this.

He's not himself anymore when he's high. Everything disappears and turns into a bright blue summer sky. There are no bad thoughts, no rules, no worries. It's like lying in bed for hours, like drifting in a pool, like kissing the softest mouth there is. Everything is warm and nice and nothing can get him here. It's his, all his. Here, it's not bad to be alone.

There is no time, no real awareness of how many people come and go. All Dean knows is that when he comes to, it's because Josh is kicking his ass. Literally. The morning light is golden where his eyes find it in the gaps between the curtains. He's lying on the floor in front of the sofa, still completely naked. He's still light. Everything is still good.

"Dean. Hey, get up. C'mon; we'll be late for work."

Dean laughs because he is ticklish where Josh's foot brushes him. When he moves to stretch, his entire body feels wobbly and strange. It probably was a long night. His lips are chipping with dried spit and God knows what else.

"Need me to call in sick for you?"

He rolls over, groans. The floor is disgusting, even in this state. But it's so damn _comfy_ right now.

"... Yeah. Imma call in sick for you. You know where the door is, don't you. See ya around."

His phone gets kicked to him and knocks against his forearm. After sleeping off the last of his high, Dean will light himself a cigarette and find a new video in his phone's gallery. Its info says it's been recorded tonight, at around one AM.

After finishing watching it, he will groan, wipe his face, stare against the wall opposite to him.

A whole month. It was worth a whole month. Don't forget that.

He will clutch the tiny plastic bag to his chest.

\---

Dad's gotten calmer recently, doesn't go out that much. Money is only short because Dean spends it, not because Dad gambles it to nothing. That morning, they meet in the kitchen, and Dad's eyes are wide and open and so much like Jen's that it hurts to look into them. Dean ducks his head for coffee.

"Sam is doing better," Dad informs him. "You finally stopped using him as your personal doormat?"

Dean snorts. "That what he told you?"

"No. That's what I assume."

He sips his lukewarm brew, lazily stares at the machine in front of him.

"Dean. I know that... after Je-"

"Dad, _stop_."

"... I know it's hard on you."

"Yeah, wow; good job, Dad! You noticed, really?? Wow. WOW."

"Don't you use that tone on me, boy."

"Oh, or else WHAT?!"

"DEAN."

"..."

"You're making it hard for the kid. He's trying to help."

"Yeah, well, I never asked him to do it."

"People like him don't have to be asked to do things like that."

"Still not my problem."

"He's a good kid, Dean. He's taking care of this family. Do you even _notice_ that?"

"Pfff."

"He goes to school, _every day_ , comes to see me, _every day_ , has coffee with me and asks how I'm doing, _every day_. And once you're home, he's right by your side, supporting you, making you laugh. He leaves with you and by God, I don't even _want_ to know where you're dragging this poor boy, Dean, but he's _with_ _you_ , all the time."

"..."

"Dean. He's doing his best. He never asks for anything, does he?"

"... No."

"See? When I offered to get him something in return for what he does for us, he said, 'I just want Dean to be Dean again.' That's it. That's all he wants."

Dean puts the cup down to the shelf.

"And that's what I want, too."

He turns around, blinks. Dad is still sitting there, still leaning against that counter. His eyes are more narrow now, and his shoulders are soft.

Suddenly, Dean realizes they haven't talked in _months_.

"I miss him, too, Dean. God knows I miss him. But please, Dean, _please_... Don't make me lose _another_ son."

For the first time in a long time, the earth stops moving without the prior placement of a pill underneath Dean's tongue. For the first time in a long time, he really _looks_ at his father.

He noticed, did he. Noticed all of it. Dean's missing hours, the mood changes, smelled the vomit, heard them come home late at night, Dean's yelling and sobbing and the never-ending chant of Sammy's "breathe, breathe, I've got you". The wild eyes, the sweat stains, the apathy.

"Whatever you need. Just tell me. We will work it out. Just... let us _help_ you, for God's sake."

The weight of the silver case in the back of his jeans, of his tired muscles, the endless seas in his heart - they bring Dean toppling down against the counter. Dad's rough, hard hands support him, hold him. He's never been this little scared of them.

"Okay," Dean breathes. "Okay."

_"Doesn't it hurt?"_

_"No." He swings his leg out of those hands. "No, it's alright. See?" He stands. It hurts, but not too bad. He laughs. "It was my fault anyway. He said 'watch out', an' I. Well, you saw me. I sucked."_

_"You didn't." Jensen looks up at him with that concerned frown Dean never honestly says he loves, maybe even craves. "He was mean. It wasn't fair."_

_"I tell you it's alright, Jen."_

_"'I tell you' it's black and blue, you idiot!"_

_Dean sucks in a sharp breath before breaking into a silent dance. He swings his arms to distract Jen's wide eyes from the pinch of his jaw._

_He comes to a halt, spins around on his heels. "See? GOOD."_

_Jensen looks up at him, less concerned, still adorable in their shared Power Rangers shirt._

_Dean grins. How can he not grin? Everything's alright. He's got Jen who will hold and kiss the bruise the whole night, until all pain has faded away. "Okay?" Dean pants._

_The corners of Jensen's mouth pull heavenwards. "Okay."_


	3. Winter '14 to Spring '15. Jared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None (wow)

A week into what apparently has become his life, Jared has to introduce a strict "homework before sex" policy - and even _that_ he has to renegotiate every day for the next couple of weeks. It's insane. The twins are insane. _He's_ insane. Even for teenagers, this cannot be normal. Not that he ever thought the twins fell under any definition of "normal" ever, but hey, he honestly did not expect their sex drive to be _this_ consuming.

He should be happy to be this lucky and it'd be a lie to say that he isn't. Jared hasn't been laid this much since those first two crazy-ass semesters at college. There are days where he thinks he can't do it, that he's too tired and that his dick will fall off if there's as much as the pressure of a pinkie against it. But the twins somehow always manage to get him going, one way or another. Jared starts a new habit of keeping a generous-sized bottle of ointment in his home medicine chest and that's what keeps him alive for the most part.

In the beginning, they always used to jump him together. Big shows, long hours, very sore afterglow. Jared didn't know he could actually still be this active but the more they challenge him, the more durable he becomes. They'd come home from school, backpacks still over their shoulders and widest grins on their damn faces which got Jared's dick to stir in a Pavlovian reflex after a mere week (it's simply not _fair_ ). They'd pull and coo and promise until at least one of the three of them was on his back in the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom, even the bathroom. Wherever they'd get him, they'd have him.

Sometimes, Jared feels used. He knows pretty well about how the twins handle their flings. At least they don't completely ignore him once the main act is done with, don't bolt from his flat and don't ever call again. No, they _stay_. More times than not, they'd end up in a mess of limbs with sweat and what-not other body fluids cooling on their skins, softly humming or babbling about the unimportant little things of the day - what the twins did in school, what Jared encountered with his clients, what new movie they should watch at the cinema, if Jared prefers cinnamon or vanilla. Brainless and lax and comfortable.

By now, it's all a bit different with those first violent firecrackers blown off. Dean gets out of their post-coital bliss with a yawn and a "see ya" more often than not, sometimes doesn't even show up together with Jensen. But Jensen stays, always stays.

Jared's pen comes to a shuddering halt on his papers. He sighs, drops his forehead into both of his hands, runs them back through his hair. He's only a man, he tries to soothe himself. "Okay, uh. Okay. Okay, Jen, e-enough."

A chuckle from underneath the desk, a wet plop from his dick springing free from Jensen's pursed lips. "Eight minutes. Not bad."

"Oh shut up."

Jensen laughs again and Jared scoots back on his chair, pulls that hand with him, gets them both to his feet and Jensen's tongue in his mouth. If there was any real use in that, he'd now announce "bedroom", but words are truly overrated. Jensen is always willing to accept actions instead, so hauling him up to wrap his leg around Jared's hips does the trick. In fact, when Jared manages to detach himself from that damn mesmerizing mouth, he finds the boy gaping at him like he just hung the moon for him. It should be a bad thing that this makes Jared want to rip their clothes from their bodies here and now, right?

He boils it all down to a growl instead, somehow manages to actually get them into the bedroom, on the bed. Jensen's showering him with kisses through all of it, voice hitched to something excited and breathless and spilling praise and encouragements as if Jared even needed any of that to get this show here on the road. They're a good team by now when it comes to getting naked as fast as possible all while not losing most of their body contact. As soon as Jensen's shirt is pulled over his head, Jared's mouth is right there. Dean doesn't exactly like kissing Jared. He says the beard distracts him and that he has "way better uses for this mouth, don't you think, Jay?" But Jensen loves it, so Jared does get his fill and more. Jared absolutely forgot how amazing kissing can be. You don't spend hours just smashing your teeth together with your special someone once you've figured out there's more urgent responsibilities in this world, like laundry and taxes and grocery shopping. But with the twins, priorities changed. They most successfully squeezed themselves between "work" and "me-time" on Jared's list, leaving "household" even farther behind. Sometimes it bothers Jared, and sometimes he forgets how to spell his own name over how utterly headless they turn him. It's a damn bear trap with them, and maybe Jared knew what he was getting himself into when he allowed this to develop.

"'M wet," Jensen chokes, has his hand firm around Jared's wrist that wanted to dart out into the general direction of the nightstand's drawer, "Jus' get in there already."

"Fuck." He just can't with this kid sometimes. Jared kisses him again, feels the ridges on the roof of Jensen's mouth that are almost like a cozy memory for him by now, just like the soft give of that firm ring of muscle that always opens for him, always. "Did you... During _school_?" He rubs the head of his dick up and down, lets it catch some of the lube that's practically pouring from Jensen's ass. Very enthusiastic. That's his Jensen.

Those strong arms wrap around his neck. "Was that bad, Mr. Padalecki? Have I been a bad boy for you, Mr. Padalecki?"

"Fuckfuckfuck, _Jen_." Jared tries to laugh but it sounds more like a sob if he's honest with himself. He feels Jensen's smile explode against his neck. "Gonna be the death of me," Jared groans and starts pushing in.

The twins got accustomed to him in a way, and then again they didn't. Jared's aware that he's a lot to take in - literally -, so it just confuses him that they very voluntarily get themselves in the positions to take his dick up their asses. They're lean and compact and no matter how often or how long they wear themselves out on Jared, it's just nearly impossible to get inside only a few hours later. So when Jensen's mouth drops open and his eyes roll back in his head, Jared is still very very tempted to ask if he's alright, if that hurt just now, if they should stop, if Jared should call an ambulance maybe. But all he always gets is soft whispering of "no" and "alright" and "please". So Jared gets braver, this time rushes his dick deeper with tiny little stabs instead of a long, fluid slide or a very sudden, very breathtaking slam that gets him all the way in and sends both of their jaws rattling.

No, today it's this - quick and easy just like Jensen's ass, like their kisses that they pepper over each other while Jared keeps it up with determination, wants to feel Jensen's body jump under his hands, wants to see his lips and chest and belly jiggle from the impact, wants to make Jensen's eyes wet with how precisely he's nailing his prostate over and over again. They both like it like this, Jensen and him. Eye to eye, Jensen's knees hooked over Jared's arms, Jensen holding on and Jared simply pounding away. The little silver key dances over Jensen's chest, his collar bones, against his chin, but the boy couldn't care less, just like Jared who doesn't have to think twice about the danger of getting hit by it when he bends down lower to kiss again, always kiss.

Jensen's come eventually hits them on their chins but Jared already knew it would happen by how Jensen's tongue stopped working, how it went taut and still and even wetter, felt that deep groan rise from inside that delicate throat. He never makes it much longer than they do because since the twins are tight already per se, they're like damn eyes of needles once they're coming. Depending on how long they decided to let Jared keep them on the edge, it can be just on the nice side of "too much". Jared feels terrible since he is aware of how young and how much smaller they are compared to him in those moments and just how easy it is for him to get off on that. But they don't judge him for it, never do, not even Dean. This game works both ways, probably.

Sometimes like today, Jared does not feel like getting up at all even when all waves are ridden to the fullest, when they're just wet and sticky and have already regained most of their breath. Jensen can take his weight, so they just keep lying on top of each other like that, Jensen squished underneath Jared with his dick limp but still inside, warm and cozy and with long strands of thinning hair stuck to his cheek where he nuzzles right into it as if it's the best thing he's ever felt.

Yeah. Jared definitely is not _not_ lucky.

\---

Dean picked up that bad habit of smoking but Jensen doesn't seem to mind it much, still kisses him and lets himself get kissed and chases that mouth like it's the best he's ever had, like it tastes like cotton candy and good coffee. Jared doesn't exactly grow tired of watching them. Finally, the armchair in his bedroom has another task next to holding his clothes. They're putting on a show and it's private, just for Jared, and Jared's right there in the first row. The rule of "no touching" doesn't include his very own body, so he lets his fingers graze along the length of his shaft, rubs the bundle of nerves under the head, licks his lips. If he gets sloppy seconds, that will be pretty alright with him, and if not, that would still not count as a loss. The view alone is enough, really.

His energy bill will end up somewhere through the roof, but if a fully cranked up heater will get him two happy, naked twinks sixty-nining each other in his sheets, Jared will gladly put up with that inconvenience. Even with the little lighting they have going on right now, Jared gets a good eyeful of Dean's tongue worming itself around and inside his twin's already sloppy hole. The kid is talented like that. Jared should know after how the first time Dean gave him a rim job, he almost lost his mind from how hard his orgasm had hit him barely five minutes into the fun. Now, Dean's propped up on his elbows, eyes shut in concentration, jaw working. Jared can only imagine how straining Jensen's cock must be by now, how wet and loose his mouth must be around Dean's cock.

"'Kay, enough," Dean groans, brings a hand down on Jensen's ass. Jared bites his lip, tugs at the base of his cock. He loves them with himself, one at a time or both of them, loves how they know every trick in the book but still get flustered when Jared somehow manages to get the upper hand. But like this, only the two of them - this is an entirely different genre altogether. They're smooth and beautiful and criminally hot (and it shouldn't be this hot, it really really shouldn't). Jared is a hundred percent sure that Jensen doesn't think about putting that grace in swinging his leg over Dean's head, drop to his belly and arch his back until even Jared can see where Dean worked him open from between his legs. There is no chance in hell Dean puts any calculation in that low groan, into that way he simply melts into the shape of his brother, spreads his knees wide and wider until they're framing Jensen's thighs, gets on his hands and bends his back into something artists would chop their legs off for being allowed to draw. Jared watches their toes curl in unison, Jensen's hurt little whimper that is not hurt at all and Dean's moan that almost brings tears to Jared's eyes with how desperate it sounds. His thumb sweeps over the first of probably many drops of precome. There's this other new habit, too, where Dean doesn't use lube at first, and if Jensen wasn't so obviously into it, Jared would have long protested. He imagines it to be painful, to drag like a bitch, but they assure him it's alright, for a few thrusts it's alright; amazing, even. That's not something they can pull off with Jared's dick. This is only for them.

So Dean thrusts home, three, four, five times, before Jensen's hips cant up and he instantly shushes the impatient noises with kisses to Jensen's trembling shoulders, grabs the lube from underneath the pillow, uncaps and pours generously. Jared could watch this all day, his damn favorite channel, and it wouldn't be half as hot without Dean's never too-shy mouth. "Feel good, Jenny? Getting' it deep an' good?"

"Yes," Jensen groans (of course, always does), extends a whimper to a moan on the first slippery-wet thrusts.

Jared can't see their faces, but that's okay. He can imagine; imagines Jensen's eyes screwed shut, mouth hanging open, Dean's lips pressed tight against his twin's skin, brows furrowed and tremors going through his face, completely out, completely caught in the moment. Jared has seen them often enough to know all of this right down to the details.

"Gonna make you feel so good, baby." It's not a threat - it's a promise. Jared swallows even though the words are not even directed at him. In the twins' eyes, he could as well not be in this room right now. Dean's hips go from rolling to slamming to lunging, Jensen's legs from shaking to tensing to bending. Jared knows that nobody in here is too far away from the edge anymore, has his hand practically flying over his dick. He's gotta hold on though, just a little longer, just to see if there'll be a chance for him to join in. It's a tricky thing. Dean can get very possessive lately, and that is tension Jared does not want between them. He can observe those limits, doesn't need to go beyond them. It's good like it is. He gets his fill. There is nothing to compete over.

Dean is like a blanket over his brother, chest tightly pressed to back, hips plunging in and in and in and Jensen's ass already is cherry red with how Dean's balls slap against it with every move.

"Whose?" Jared hears. "Whose?"

"Yours, yours," Jensen wails, tenses, comes.

Jared holds his breath, pinches his nipple hard enough to make it hurt. Not yet. Not yet.

They ride out every second of their joined orgasm and when Dean finally, finally pulls out, Jared is on the bed so fast his heart is pounding in his ears. It makes him feel a little like a dog to do this and he isn't too sure why on earth he really really enjoys to do this, but it's probably the twins' influence that makes him press his face right against Jensen's still sticky ass (and he gets it pressed back up into his face just as enthusiastically, mind you) and suck every drop of come and lube and whatever he can get his tongue on right back out of whichever twins' wrecked hole. He loves the fluttering of those muscles, the delightful gasp and groan, the way everything is just so filthy and hot and oh God how did he ever get himself into something like this?

A rough hand yanks him back by his hair. Dean's dick shoves into his vision, past his mouth, right back into Jensen.

"Did I say I was finished, Padaleski?"

Jared ends up creaming the sheets like a damn teen since Dean at least lets him continue nosing and licking and kissing around where he fucks his brother even looser, even sloppier, and it's just not okay to make something like this possible. Dean's fist stays in his hair through all of it just like his voice doesn't lose that deep, low growl.

But Jared can accept boundaries. Boundaries are good and needed.

\---

"I love it when you do that."

Jensen chuckles. "Do what?"

"That." Jared smiles, traces his finger over that arm. "Drawing patterns on me. What's that just now? A butterfly?"

"A what? Oh God, looks like I finally broke you for good."

"A plane?"

"Nuh-uh." Jensen kisses his neck, soft and warm just like his entire body is nestled up right against Jared's side. It's been half a year now, half a year of fucking and losing his head and too many kisses and too much little brats in his life. Too many planes and butterflies on his skin, scrapes of fingernails, bites of teeth.

Staring up at the ceiling of the living room where it maybe all started that night, Jared somehow feels like this is a kind of turning point.

There are two options, Padalecki: get with it or get lost.

"It's a heart, dummy," Jensen mutters then, more chuckle and breath than anything else. Jared feels his lashes drag over his skin, another kiss finding his neck.

His hand comes up to cup Jensen's cheek, tips it up, closer, until he can kiss that mouth, can taste Jensen's swollen tongue and the sweet bitterness that lies there ever since he can remember. "Still can't believe this here is happening," he tells Jensen, lets his eyes drift from left to right green and back, over freckles and skin and Jensen who starts feeling like home.

That soft smile melts a little. Jared imagines those eyes going a little bit wetter under his gaze, a little wider. "Yeah. Me neither."

After a while - and Jared doesn't think of anything, really, just as if there's nothing in the whole wide world but this, Jensen in his arms, them on the floor, their skin and hearts and breath and that damn necklace around that damn neck - Jared says, "I don't think I'll want anything but this here. Ever."

Jensen doesn't answer to that, lets himself get kissed though, holds his arms tighter around Jared when Jared pulls him close, wraps his stupid, long arms around that softly thrumming back, squeezes him to his heart.

If this is how he is destined to die, then so be it.


	4. Spring '12. Jensen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Underage (the twins are 16)

My lip tastes a bit like your come and a bit like my blood. Strangely enough, instead of disgusting, it tastes like home. "He's cute," I tell you.

You're a heavy weight on my chest, your hair gel sticky on my skin and the scent of it heavy in my nose. You groan, were almost asleep. "What? Who?"

"The guy next door."

"The... what?" You stir, press closer against me. My arm around you holds you tight. "That _grandpa_? Jen, what the fuck." You slap my chest and I suppress a giggle. Can't wake up Dad who's snoring in front of our room. Shouldn't.

"I dunno." I nuzzle your hair. "He's got that kind of, uh. Like, once he's started, he won't stop. You know what I'm sayin'?"

You chuckle and I go along.

"And he's _tall_ ," I add.

"Size queen," you grunt.

I stare up at the ceiling and smile to myself since you can't see me with your face hidden against my neck. After the shit of the last few weeks, it finally feels like I can breathe again. We're settled once more, and Dad's falling back into old patterns. We'll have some solid months here. Maybe years. I relax because you relax, can enjoy myself because you're starting to enjoy yourself again. The building isn't too amazing and our room smells like mold, but it's better than being dragged over the road in that damn car, in that damn backseat, always on the run, the constant remnants of adrenaline in our systems. We'll go to school again. We'll have a life again.

I close my eyes and thank God for giving me this.

\---

It's only our third day and Dean's already gotten himself into detention. Great. I walk home by myself and the rain is pouring down on me hard enough to make it hurt. I am soaked down to my underwear but my biggest worry is my backpack, my books and notes in it. It's getting worse and worse and two blocks before home, I have to take a break, get underneath a canopied doorway. I rub my stiff hands together, huff my only remotely warm breath over them. There's this itch to look after my stuff but I'm too scared to find out about its state.

I sniffle, slide down against the wall to sit down. I'll wait for it to calm down a bit, then make a run for it. It's only water. Only water.

"Hey!"

My head stirs and I see him standing a few feet away from me, grocery bags heavy in one hand, umbrella in the other.

"Everything alright, buddy?"

"Yeah," I say. We almost have to shout to overpower the rain.

"Forgot your umbrella?"

I nod.

He offers me a smile, extends his arm a little to give me an idea that he is reaching out to me despite the umbrella in his hand. "Let's get you home."

He tells me his name is Jared and I tell him mine's Jensen. He asks about you and I say, "my big brother, Dean", and I think you'd like hearing me say that. Out of my fear to soil his suit (it's a nice suit) I try not to get too close to him, but he's so warm and the umbrella only reaches so far. I end up leaving dark-soaked spots on his trench coat and apologize once we're inside.

"It's only water," Jared says with a smile.

I already know we're living on the same floor, the same corridor even. I say "thank you, Mr. Padalecki" and he says "no problem, Jensen", and I go for my door and he goes for his.

I only have a few steps to decide what to do - and I end up like we somehow always do: lying and maybe a little bit desperate. "Oh," I gasp, hear him flinch somewhere behind me. I pat all over myself, my pockets. "Shit, Dee's got the- Fuck." My foot stomps down in frustration and I throw my head back hard enough to flip some drops of water from my hair. I don't think I ever learned to feel ashamed for these types of games.

"Locked out?" I hear.

"Yeah," I lie. (As if I'd ever give you the key.)

"Isn't your dad...?"

I pout, shake my head, let my shoulders hang low.

Jared looks so concerned, like, genuinely sorry. I should feel bad about getting this out of him with an easy performance like that, but I guess that's not how we are, are we, Dee? Actually, I feel proud that it worked, excited that it plays out so well, that I'll get what I want. "Geez," Jared sighs, juggles with keys and bags and folded umbrella. "Alright, uh, okay, what uh- You could wait at my place? You could call him?"

I trot closer with my still devastated expression. "He's got no cell phone," I lie again.

I watch Jared unlock the door, his unsure expression. For an adult, he's really jumpy, isn't he? He is old enough to be our dad, but the thought only passes me by real quick. "Okay, we'll, uh, we'll figure something out, okay? Don't worry. I'll get you something warm to eat and then we'll figure this out."

Finally, I can let my lips curl, even if just a little bit, even if I have to make it look as if it was hard to pull off. "Thanks, Mr. Padalecki."

He gets me a fuzzy blanket and a hot cocoa (I'm not a kid, for fuck's sake... even _if_ it's pretty good) but my body won't exactly follow with the program. My cheeks may be flushed and my eyes awake and all over the place, but I'm still shivering. I peer up through my lashes and find him pale and almost shaking. Oh God. Why must he be so cute?

"You, you should- Do you want to take a bath, or...? But I have nothing that'd fit you, I, uh, my nephew is only three years old and I don't have him over much often and I-"

"A, uh, a t-shirt would be fine," I suggest. Yes, yes, please, one of his shirts; I'd love to know how those smell.

He looks at me like I just offered to pole dance for him. I don't know why but the sweat stains in his armpits make me want to throw my entire plan over board just like that and jump him here and now. He runs his hand through his hair, half laughs and half chokes, spins around as if he was looking for something. "Uh, yeah, I. Yeah, we can do that. Yeah."

My clothes become a freezing pile on his pretty bathroom tiles, my body finally less of an ice sickle under the boiling stream of his showerhead. When I'm as good as done, I start going through his body washes and shampoos that are neatly lined in a row along the bathtub. The water is loud enough to overpower the clicks of me uncapping the bottles, my tiny happy sounds that I don't feel like holding back. He's got good taste. I'd give a limb to know what these smell like on his skin.

To keep my secret, I of course cannot wash myself down with his products, and maybe that's better, will let my skin soak up the scent of his shirt more effectively. I towel myself down and pull on the promised shirt as well as way-too-big boxer shorts. I bunch the shirt up in my fists and press my face into it. It's so soft. I wonder if he uses this as pajamas. Jared also provided me with a new blanket and thick wool socks and the second makes me laugh while the first just is crucial to prevent a serious case of flashing. Wrapped in what feels like a warm cocoon of fluff, I finally exit the bathroom.

There's kitchen noises and heavenly smells. My mouth waters so hard that I have to swallow twice to get it all down. I pit-pat to where I know the tiny kitchen is and peer around the corner, find him with his giant hands all over the place, chopping something here, throwing something into a pan there. I can only stare in complete awe. Nobody besides you and Uncle Bobby has ever fixed me a home cooked meal.

He must have seen me from the corner of his eye and almost throws the sizzling pan from the stove in a violent recoil that makes me start, too. Then, he laughs, and I try a smile. "Don't sneak up on me like that; damn!" I say I'm sorry and he says it's okay. He invites me to sit down and wait for everything to be done. Of course I accept. He fixes me another cup of that cocoa and makes me laugh with little stories I won't be able to tell you about - you'd just roll your eyes and call him a sap.

I am served stir fry and wolf down everything he piles on my plate. It's very spicy and makes my stomach burn a bit, but honestly? After the ice cold soaking from earlier, that's a welcomed effect. Maybe he even planned this to happen. While I eat, he talks. A lot at first, but he calms down eventually. He makes a lot of different faces and if you were here we would have a laugh about it. It's adorable. I can't get enough of it, so I ask here and there to get my fill. He delivers. Eventually, his features relax along with his entire body, little by little. He ends up looking at me with the heavy eyes of someone who is working a lot, someone tired. But it's not like Dad. Jared is more peaceful in his tiredness. He looks like someone you want to wrap into a blanket and whose corridor's light needs to be left on.

His fidgeting with the cutlery becomes less twitchy and I watch his long, long fingers. I try not to be too obvious about memorizing the shape of them, the way he moves them. I am polite and I eat pointedly slow around the end because it buys me time to will my hard-on away.

He has nice, big hands. I think about how they might feel on my body while he uses them to put away the dishes, am offered to watch TV while I wait for Dad or you to come home; he has some work left to do, and would it bother me if he'd take care of it? "No," I shake my head and occupy the tiny tiny sofa. I have no idea how he fits himself here.

Some lame cartoon, but the corner of my vision is so much more interesting. He works calm and precisely, very different from how he is with me, maybe with all people. He seems to be contended with work. I listen to the scratching his pen produces on the papers in front of him, and I try to imagine if he is the type that leaves his mouth open just a little bit when he is deep in concentration. I have a feeling he is.

Our fingers touch when he hands me another cocoa. I blink into my cup and say, "Thank you, Mr. Padalecki," and I almost don't put on a show.

His warm, warm hand comes down on my shoulder. I can feel it even through the blanket. "Don't mention it." And then he's gone again.

You come rumbling up the stairs and even though it has been hours, the rain still hasn't stopped yet. I tell him and he's irritated for a second before returning to reality, nods and smiles and says, "That's good." I have to leave quickly before my lies blow up, have to pass you the key. I tell Mr. Padalecki "thank you" again and add "for everything" before stumbling into the corridor and you and your rain-soaked back.

"Jen, what the-" You are looking for my eyes instantly. I give you our silent sign for "play along". Your expression changes immediately. You are waiting for your cue like a well-trained dog.

"Finally, man. I've been waiting forever!" Between us, I pass the key into your jacket's pocket. Your eyes droop as you take me in in my "ball of fluff" attire, map out my body and mood and chemistry. You see the impatient heat on my face and you are as far away from licking your lips as I am from biting mine. "Get it open."

"Sorry for making you wait." You smirk the words and I lean my forehead against your back while you unlock the door Dad has been snoring behind all along.

Behind us, I hear Mr. Padalecki's door falling a little bit more closed, hear a tiny, "Okay, good. Take your time with the clothes. I don't need them back too soon." The door falls into its lock and I squeeze both my mouth and eyes shut while I feel your chest fluttering under your barely contained burst of laughter.

We stride past Dad and his maze of bottles, and we can't lock our room but you always find a way. It's an alienated chair this time that you hook under the door handle, and I make you let me keep Jared's shirt hiked up under my armpits while you fuck all the heat from that wonderful space across the corridor deeper into my body. I share it with you since you are still freezing and you show your gratitude with breathless little questions about Jared, what he did to me, what I did to him, what he said, what I said. You know I can't answer you with my breath held tight in my lungs but I babble about everything in length once we are both sated and warm under the borrowed blanket. You take whiffs of it because I do and you listen to me closely with your eyes wider and more awake than they actually are.

"He's really cute," I sigh.

"Got it the first five times." You don't mean it in a sassy way and I know that. Your voice is smooth and relaxed like both of our bodies are. I never feel not-naked with you. I can tell you everything. Your fingers tip-tap over my chest. I ruffle your now dried hair. "So. What now?"

I think for a moment before I answer, "I don't wanna do it just yet, I think."

We don't usually take it slow. It's not our cup of tea. You could say "what? why?" and give me a look - but you shrug and say, "Okay."

My eyes are on the ceiling as I listen to the rain. The window is not ajar but the breeze whistles through it anyway. We will fix it later with the duct tape you got your hands on in the school janitor's office. I take a deep breath and kiss your hair. Your yawn infects me.

"I want him to not have a clue at all. An' then - bam."

"Good ol' Oliver Twist card?"

I nod against your forehead and smile. "Yeah."

"Might take a while. Your mister is not exactly smart."

"Not in that way, no."

You snuggle closer to me, sigh. Your voice is raspy with impending sleep. "Whatever tickles your fancy, babe."

I listen to Dad's restless mutters, to your even breath, to the whistling air. As long as we haven't masked Jared's smell with our own, it surrounds us. As long as it's still there, I try to memorize it.


	5. '02 to '09. The twins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: underage (the twins are 6 and up throughout this part - 12 at the first sexual scene), dubious consent

'02.

Dean grabs Jensen's hand harder. "No," he decides for them both. The bag of candy makes his mouth water, but Dad said they are not supposed to talk to strangers. No thinking. Dad. Listen to Dad.

When Dad exits the deli, Jensen cries for "daddy" and starts wailing in shock as Dad becomes very fast and very angry, darts after the man with the candy and yells ugly, unheard words at him. Dean's bottom lip trembles but he keeps himself steady, eyes stuck to Dad's back, silently begging for him to come back, to scoop them up into his arms, to get them back into the car and away, far away.

Dad does.

\---

'05.

Dad is busy with his back bowed and facing the wall where they are seated on the booth's bench. Dean and Jensen keep staring at the man who keeps staring at them across the entire distance of the bar. Something fascinates them about the scene. It's like a secret game. Jensen sucks on the straw in his bottle of coke until it's loud enough to upset Dad who tells him to "stop it Jensen, goddammit". So Jensen chews on it instead. Dean savors his drink. He likes to make it last.

Just as fluently as Dad leaves to take a leak, the guy slips from his seat and finds his way to them. Dean keeps the straw in his mouth, his last idle remnants of soda not fuzzy anymore but too good to waste. They keep up the staring. The guy stares back in silence.

He's sweating. But everyone is sweating. Even they are sweating, and they are used to the degrees by now. Jensen rolls the straw around behind his cheek.

A rough hand comes up, so gentle, so harmless that neither of them flinches away as it drifts down the lines of their jaws, Dean's first, Jensen's later.

They keep staring, and because they do, they don't miss the flutter of eyelashes, the held back beginning of a sigh.

The hand disappears into a pocket and produces a wrinkled set of dollars. It is held out in the secluded privacy behind the man's back and them, like Dad's back, but closer, more secretive.

Dean reaches out and is handed what he lets vanish into his jeans' pocket.

"For another soda," the man explains. Then, he makes a bee-line for the door - and vanishes.

By the time Dad returns, they have already split the money.

\---

January '08.

"I'm cold."

So Dean snuggles up closer. "Better?"

Jensen nods, sighs, hugs his brother. Dean holds him just as tight. Dad said he would be back. They are both counting the hours. They're currently at twelve. "I'm not scared, y'know," Jensen says out loud for nobody in particular.

Dean pulls his head from where he has been hiding it in the crook of Jensen's neck and kisses him on the mouth. They do that for a while. It's nice. Always feels nice. Soothing, somehow. Warm.

Dean says, "Here," and slips his hand into the back of Jensen's shorts. An odd sensation. Jensen holds his breath. It gets better eventually. Warm. Dean's finger rubs up and down. Warmer. "Touch mine." Dean sounds excited but tries not to. Jensen doesn't feel like making fun of him right now.

They both know Dean got the idea from that video they had watched on that kid's laptop, hidden away in the attic of another house, not theirs, never theirs. It had scared half of the boys of their little group, and the rest started jerking off (which made the scared half even more scared, but there was enough space and little to no light at all, so get with it or get out). No need to say which side the twins had been on.

But there's this miniscule ounce of wondering when they touch each other _there_. It feels nice, yeah, but they can't deny the hesitation. A little like a big deal, somehow. Like something forbidden.

Jensen gasps, "Ouch," when Dean's finger slips inside. It feels funny. Uncomfortable for the most part, but yet again not. Not warm - hot. Sickening. Dizzy. Dean picks up kissing once more, and they float away with it.

Dean asks, "Can I try it?" and Jensen answers, "Okay."

They make it work with spit and sweaty hands, and it feels really weird now, super weird, and both whimper because now they _are_ scared, but it's too late to turn back.

"It looked so easy," Dean complains once it's over, between the covers and the stains they are not brave enough to face yet.

"They were much older though," Jensen reminds, "An' bigger. Maybe it has to be bigger?"

"Hm," makes Dean. Hour thirteen, they think. "Let me try again."

\---

October '08.

While the earth is frozen and loud underneath their feet, there is no snow in sight. Not yet. It doesn't really get bright anymore during the day. Everything is a cloudy grey. They can see their breath clouding in front of their faces, in front of Ryan's. Dad stayed with Mr. Jacobsen - Ryan's dad. They are busy with "work" (something they are not allowed to know about), so the boys were sent out to pass some time out of earshot. There are shotguns in their small hands, the idea of shooting a deer somewhere in the air. Ryan said his dad taught him that stuff. The twins know how to shoot bottles or cans, inanimate objects. Maybe this won't be as lame.

Ryan, who walks between them, leans forward and slightly down and taps his right cheek with his forefinger. Dean pecks a kiss on that very spot. Ryan repeats the same with the left; Jensen's side. They have been with the Jacobsen's for a few weeks now and know the little games.

A raised hide comes into sight and they climb it. The booth is kind of crammed, but the twins are still far away from grown anywhere close to Ryan's size. Another few years. He sits between them and they share a quick glance in front of his chest. Both their mouths are tight. It's freezing and they are churned up by nervousness. It's an unspoken thing that they won't let Ryan know about. The twins are not dumb. They know how sex and flirting works; especially Dean who seems to explode with curiousness in this department. But neither of them ever did anything with anyone but each other yet. This is new, and it's the most exciting thing that's happened to them in weeks.

Ryan puts his gun behind him and does the same with the twins'. So much for that. He is turning to Dean first whose chin rises immediately. Show no fear. Jensen watches the stiff lines of his twin's body very closely. Those eyes are wide and waiting, cheeks red from the cold. Ryan asks if Dean knows what a French kiss is. Dean's nod comes timidly. They have done a lot with each other but don't know the terms. This one is easy though. Even normal kids their age know what it means.

Dean tries to soften under the no longer gloved hand that places itself on his cheek, under the wide mouth that licks into his own. He is still staring straight at Ryan, and the deep hum from a matured voice jostles both twins. They both are sure that they are too young for someone Ryan's age. They both agree that Ryan is strange. But that's okay. They are not normal either. Kids their age are boring. Someone older must know what he's doing, right? If anything, this is exciting. Terrifying but exciting. They are in this together. No need to be afraid.

After withdrawing from Dean, Ryan goes for Jensen who closes his eyes and balls his fists in his lap. Ryan chuckles and says, "Hey, buddy, relax," before running the tip of his tongue over a quivering bottom lip. He rubs both bird-like backs over sleeveless padded vests, then slips underneath to feel their flat stomachs flutter under his too-cold fingers. The twins observe Ryan's and each other's reactions. He feels them up over their stiff jeans and it's nice. His hands are bigger than theirs. Ryan gets his dick out and he's bigger here, too.

He tells them to touch it, so they do, one hand each. He groans and leans back, watches them. They don't dare to search for each other's eyes in this position. They have a feeling it's hotter for Ryan if he doesn't know they know exactly what they are doing.

"Could you guys kiss?"

They look up at each other at that.

"C'mon, just for me. Just see what it's like."

Dean's eyes flicker down to where he is holding Ryan's dick, back up to Jensen's eyes. His brother swallows, blinks once and twice. Twice means yes. Dean mirrors it. While they kiss, unsure how much enthusiasm they should use, Ryan's dick gets really wet.

Ryan says it's their little secret when he makes them pull down their jeans and shorts, when he touches them with big, sweaty hands and a too-wet mouth. He feels behind their balls and almost chokes on his tongue while asking if they ever touched themselves here. Jensen says no and Dean dares to say the truth. Jensen gets to watch Ryan's tongue and fingers disappear into his brother. They did that before and they both like it, but Dean has never made these sounds. It's more than scary but it seems to be good somehow; Jensen can tell by the hitch of his brother's voice (panic and pain sounds different). Ryan comes together with Dean and licks those nervous tears from those cheeks before switching over to Jensen to repeat the procedure.

On all fours on the tiny bench, Dean cries some more on Ryan's fingers and Jensen cries because Dean cries, oversensitive and maybe just a little bit scared. Ryan shushes them sweetly, cooing and promising pretty nothings and even candy because maybe he has the illusion they are still in that phase. Eyes find each other, lashes and mouths dripping, and they weave their fingers together. The closeness comforts them.

Ryan fists his dick and asks if they can imagine being fucked with it. They shake their heads immediately, huddling together in front of the bench. They complain about being cold and wanting to go home. Ryan says, "Just once more," and tells them to stick out their tongues as they kneel in front of him, cheeks mushed together. Dean gives Jensen an unnerved look over a mouthful of come. "Don't tell your dad." They don't know why Ryan even mentions the obvious.

Pants back on, guns shouldered, back over the icy path. While Jensen turns his cheek for Ryan's lips, Dean pushes him off with a scowl. Jensen knows that expression - his brother has had enough. Fortunately for the guy, Ryan leaves Dean his space and doesn't try anything again. The entire thing seems to have been tougher on Dean who was being more straight-forward, more demanding. Even though he asked for it, he doesn't seem too happy with what he got.

Back in the cabin and after a scorching hot shower, they hide under the blankets of their shared bed. The dads are still talking downstairs but it's not about work anymore. Bellowed laughter and clinking of glass means celebrating when it's with another person. Ryan joined the men. The twins feel like whispering nevertheless.

Dean's eyes are wide. "Did you like it?"

"Dunno... You?"

"I think so." A pause. "It was _weird_."

"Yeah, a little."

"He made you cry."

"Oh shut up! You too!"

"... Did it hurt for you?"

"A little," Jensen nods. "But I guess it always hurts a bit? Hurts with you, too."

"Yeah. Same."

"Felt good how he did it."

"Uh-huh."

A beat before Jensen mutters, "I thought about saying yes to the last thing."

"I know." Dean smoothens their foreheads together.

"Changed my mind when you said no."

"I know."

"Weren't you curious?"

"Jen, did you _see_ his thing? No fuckin' way."

Dean's fingers play with Jensen's. Barely any oxygen is left in their tiny cave but its warmth and safety is worth it. When they only take very small draughts of air, all is good.

"... Were you scared?"

"No," Dean says immediately. Despite the darkness, Jensen watches his twin staring at their entwined fingers.

"Me neither."

"Yeah, 'cause I woulda kicked his ass!" Dean says it very sincerely but starts grinning not too long afterwards. Because Jensen starts laughing, Dean follows.

A few days later, Ryan approaches them once more. Jensen glares up at him while Dean tells him to go screw himself. Ryan threatens to tell their dad about how they seduced him - and storms off with a fuming head when they laugh about him hard enough to make their tummies hurt. The reaction is honest from both twins, just like the nervous shake in their bodies they both deny.

They might not be agreeing completely about rejecting Ryan, but Jensen won't drag Dean into something he isn't confident with. They wouldn't betray each other like that. Dad said they would leave in a few days anyway.

No need to grieve missed opportunities. There will be other places, other cabins, other people. There always were. There probably always will be.

No need to be afraid. The upper hand is theirs. They are not normal, stupid kids. They have each other's backs. Always. With everything.

They stick their tongues out at Ryan from the backseat of the Impala as it puts growing distance between the cabin and them.

\---

Spring '09.

Her name is Jennifer. Jenny. Jen. It should be ridiculous, and it is. For once, she is someone their age. As usual, she is just as precocious as anyone else the twins can really open up to.

Dean tells Jensen that she let him touch her tits under her sweatshirt and almost chokes on his breathlessness as he speaks. A girl. Such a divine being. And one that doesn't find them repulsive, scary, weird. Maybe a little; Dean hadn't asked her that. But Jenny doesn't complain when he returns with his brother and explains with almost honest confidence that they share everything, and that by "everything" he means _everything_.

Jenny raises an eyebrow at that, but she also bites her lovely bubblegum-pink lip, just like the one they have, and maybe they finally see how nobody seems to be able to turn their eyes away from them.

Jenny kisses like a champ. She teaches them a new trick or two, and how is that even possible at this point? Dean proposes that they should pick up girls more often, maybe, and Jensen finds no reason to say no.

A girl is something different. Their bodies alone, the parts they have and don't have. It's thrilling. If Jenny was a boy, they think, she would be the triplet to them. While her parents are watching late night shows a few rooms over, Jenny strips in secret for her twins, under the blanket of her small bed, and doesn't mind that they are two and that it's crammed. They feel each other up, exploring and teasing, sometimes knowingly, sometimes not. Not, for example, when Jensen slides his fingers through the damp little crease between her legs and finds something that makes her jolt. They touch her a lot there from then on, and the sounds she makes are enough to send them drooling for more.

Fortunate or not, they stay at that particular town for a while; a while long enough for Jenny to propose going all the way. She's curious and confident, so lewd for a little girl, and they love it to death, so they agree. Jenny helps rolling condoms over their dicks and she doesn't bleed like they say a girl would when they push into her. She smells and feels like heaven. Her sounds are small, not held back. Jensen smacks Dean on the head when he moans "Jen". If anything, Jenny is more like Dean. They have the same way of going quiet in the most strangest moments.

"Oh," she says when they announce their departure, that Dad is a salesman and that they move a lot, so maybe they will come back some day. She keeps her mouth pouty, her skirt neatly covering her warm, warm lap. "Okay," she replies.

\---

June '09.

James is not much older than them with his sixteen years that don't suit his sturdy body, his unbending self-assurance. He has tattoos to show, bony fingers, hollow cheeks, hairs in unkempt dreadlocks. He mesmerizes them both; big words for Dean and shit-eating attitude that does it all for Jensen. Dad quartered them in at this sort of "commune" which really is nothing more or less than a homeless shelter; "just for one or two days, boys". One or two days. It's perfect.

They won his heart even prior to the shared rations of food that Dad had left them with, but it definitely doesn't hurt either. He tells them about his hitchhiking adventures through the desert while he rolls himself a joint that he won't offer to either of them, is shirtless just like them in this late evening heat; torn cargo pants, barefoot. His eyes are awake, always on the run. They stop on Dean's face for once when that hand slides over his thigh and towards his crotch. Even though James laughs, he doesn't tell Dean to stop. Jensen watches from James' right and earns an arm around his shoulders.

James doesn't ask the usual teasing shit like if they aren't too young for this, if they even know what they are doing here, if they are sure and blablabla. All he does is watch very closely while he places his hands on them, if they flinch away, look away. When they don't, he smiles. They return it.

Dean is first. Dean is always first. His cheeks are burning red. It's so different with a stranger, someone not them. Throughout everything, he returns to Jensen's eyes, grabbles for his fingers. Jensen watches his brother with awe as his face scrounges like Jensen has seen happen so many countless times now already. Dean doesn't say that it hurts. He never does.

Summer rain turns the roads outside into muddy messes. The air smells like burnt ground, moist wood. The little shed with the dirty blankets feels like a fort.

Dean's mouth is wide but silent, James' teeth on his neck, leaving some purple next to Jensen's already there ones. James is soft and slow in how he does it, like Jensen and then again not alike at all. There's something wilder under the surface, something they can't calculate with this little knowledge of him. Not long until it takes over, until Dean buries his face into the blanketed dirt. James growls almost secret profanities from between his grinding teeth. He's perfect.

James finishes inside the condom, inside of Dean. He rolls over and sighs, brushes his hair out of his eyes, pets their shoulders. Jensen is breathless even though he hasn't been touched yet, eyes alternating between his exhausted brother and the boy in between the two of them. Exchanged looks over James' stomach communicate nervousness from Jensen and an encouraging "it's not too bad, don't worry" from Dean. So Jensen swallows and waits his turn.

It takes a while for James to go again. Jensen buys a good amount of minutes with the talents everyone seems to be able to read in their faces, the pink of their lips. He gags a few times and Dean is not too out of it not to look worried, but James soothes him onto his back soon enough. Again a condom, and it feels strange. "Never without one," James tells Jensen and maybe both of them, and his voice is so sincere, so religious in their puppy love ears that they give it the honor of becoming one of their unbreakable laws. (Not between each other though, of course. As always, they are the exception.)

Jensen doesn't cry, doesn't say it hurts, because it doesn't. Dean holds his hand and kisses him upon James' request. It's surprisingly easy to do this with someone else. Calming, actually, to think that they are not weird for enjoying it with each other. It's easy with others _as well_. Always easy.

The three of them give in to slumber until Jensen shakes Dean awake at familiar engine sounds. James' eyes are open and on them, watching as they dress and watch him watch them. They all have lived through too many years and places to hold on to the pretty idea of seeing each other again anytime soon. Or ever again.

So James tells them, "Farewell, boys," and they reply, "Thanks for everything."

James kisses their left hands' knuckles and lies back down when they exit the shed.

The sun is bearing down on them and the bags over their burnt shoulders, over the waiting car whose engine purrs under a hood of black, spotless metal.

Jensen blindly fits his own into Dean's hand.


	6. Summer '18 to spring '19. Sam.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: drug addiction, drug withdrawal  
> Mood tracks: [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y039uJgpPCU), [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IdneKLhsWOQ)

Those months on the road were the best time of my life. We had no goal, not even a plan. One big adventure on four wheels, and I have never again felt as alive as I did back then.

When they speak about youth and stupid dreams, freedom and love, this is what _I_ think about.

Only a few weeks into therapy and exhausted by his medication's side effects, Dean sat through all of my boring graduation just to give me a face to smile at in the crowd. While everyone hugged their parents, siblings or lovers, I walked straight into his arms. I had already outgrown him back then and wished I hadn't - what I would have given to hide my eyes behind something more than hair.

We both must have felt my heart hammering in my chest, knew all eyes were on us, and how my shaking hand was able to hold on to my diploma I cannot tell you today.

But Dean had gone from hugging me as tightly as he could to gently cupping my face. Our kiss was so sweet that it made my stomach flip with a sudden and intense burst of (back then) unknown things.

I remember his lips still on mine, his thumbs softly brushing over my cheeks as he whispered, "Run away with me."

While my former classmates lingered on school grounds or started leaving for festivities, I was brought home with the instruction of "one bag, ten minutes". Still in my graduation robe, I ran up the stairs, the stupid hat lost already (in the car, as we found out later that day). No duration had been stated, if north or south, what we would be doing wherever we would be going. I hadn't needed any of this information. I had been ready for whatever.

The contents had spilled from my backpack as I shook it upside-down, heart on my tongue, adrenaline peaking in my blood (finally not from horror or fear or anything bad anymore, no, no, that was over, finally over). No hesitation in my choices - two pieces of each clothing category in addition to the ones I was wearing already, top three favorite books, two notebooks, pencil case - even though I had to leave Helm behind for now (wherever we would be going, I knew she would not survive for long). My wallet and phone in the pocket of my jeans, I zipped up my bag and I was ready.

I wish I could tell you now how I took a second to look around myself, how I took in my old room and home, and how there was this sad realization that I would not see it again for God knew how long. Truth is: I couldn't bolt back outside fast enough.

Louisiana Street bid me goodbye with a last beautiful panorama: Dean, leaning against the Impala, visibly drained but never not perfect, lighting himself a cigarette while John hauled their luggage into the trunk. (Four bags, nothing more or less. They left a lot in that house. We all left a lot there.) When he heard me approaching, this beautiful man looked up at me and smiled as he shifted into a more comfortable position in the sun. I think I had fallen in love with Dean Winchester the first moment I saw him, but it had never before felt as tangible as in that particular moment.

John looked me over - a stupid eighteen-year-old with five dollars and eighteen cents plus a saggy backpack full of second hand clothing to his name - and his eyes seemed to ask me if I was sure. I was young and naïve, not as naïve as when the Winchesters had moved in next-door three years ago, no, but it was enough to give myself over to them, this family. Since Jensen had left, I had become a part of them. Maybe a substitute. It didn't really matter to me. Finally, I had a place where I belonged. I put all my heart into my silent response. To this, John said out loud that I should at least tell my poor mother goodbye.

So I told him the address of her work and they dropped me off there; no time limit this time. She was surprised about the visit and it would be a lie to say that she wasn't at least a little concerned when I announced my leave. I could see this short flicker of loss ghosting over her expression, but she ended up nodding eventually when I was finished talking. "If that's what you want," she told me.

"Please don't touch my stuff while I'm away," I asked of her. Along with a wrinkled set of unexpected but highly appreciated dollar bills, the sincere squeeze of her hand around mine gave me all I could have asked from her. Little did I know back then that we wouldn't speak again for a very, very long time. Now as then, it was nothing to busy my mind with. I am not ungrateful for the home she had provided me with. It is simply a fact that I learned that family neither starts nor ends with blood. I felt more connected to those beat-up guys waiting for me outside whom I had known for a couple of years than I did towards my own biological mother. Heather had never told me but I eventually had figured out myself that I was not exactly a planned factor in her life. We went our separate ways and I have made my peace with it. I am confident that she did the same.

Back at the car, I slipped into the backseat as if I'd done it a thousand times, and it felt good. Dean almost lay in his seat, arm dangling from where he had it propped up where the window was rolled down. John was wearing sunglasses and tapped on the steering wheel to the rhythm of Seger's "Lucifer" that was drumming from the speakers. Of course I didn't know neither singer nor song back then. I also didn't know people were still using cassette tapes, and that even if there was a whole box of them, you could and _would_ grow tired of them after several weeks (but you would still sing along). I would learn a lot in those weeks that would turn into months, and I would not want to have missed a single second of it.

"Ready?"

John's question hovered over everyone in the car and seemed to affect us in equal parts.

I decided for the three of us with my, "Yes."

\---

We didn't leave the road for very long in the first few weeks. Gas stations, diners and deserted places along the asphalt were our only stops. I watched the landscape flying past us for hours, feeling the young summer air and listening to unfamiliar classic rock, smelling new scents. Kansas waved goodbye as Nebraska welcomed us. I scribbled date and time into my notebook to remember it later on as if I already knew that I would be grateful for every detail that would keep all of this alive.

The first time I noticed that John's credit card didn't spell his real name, I felt oddly disoriented for a moment - then a great deal longer and harder when I saw him flicking through several more. Never the same company, never the same name. In the corner of my eye, Dean was as indifferent as he always was at that time. I looked down on my plate full of food that we would be stealing and I thought of the many meals before that I had eaten without spending a single thought. And why _would_ I have? I felt and still feel stupid for my gullibility back then. However, I came to the conclusion that I would go along with it all. It felt natural with the Winchesters and I was a part of them now, after all. It would take Dean another few years to open up about how this was how things had worked for his family ever since he could remember. And John would confess mess after immoral mess on a hospital bed, spilling silent tears while I would be holding his hand. But those things still were centuries away from me.

Dean slept a lot. No matter the heat or the quality of the asphalt, Dean would sleep. After the ons and offs of the last months, the difficult time prior to the meds with all the cold turkey tries and the rebounds, it was a welcomed circumstance for all of us, even though it left me with nobody to communicate with (John is not a talker). I did not mind. As long as Dean was resting and safe, I was happy. John didn't tell me in person but I eventually figured out the scam he must have pulled in order to get his hands on those rehab medications had been the one and only reason for our "travels". I guess I had been lucky that my graduation had fallen into a timeframe they could allow to prolong their disappearance from Lawrence.

So Dean slept through city after city, and he slipped against my shoulder a few miles out of Alexandria. I remember the weight of his head, his warm sweat (not cold anymore, no longer, no more) seeping through my shirt. Even without him telling me I knew there was no way of touching him with John around. I don't think John knew back then but it was not on me to estimate. I kept looking out of the window and let summer eat us up.

My notebook says he kissed me on July eighth; five weeks AL (anno Lawrence). I shivered when it happened and I felt the same things crawl over his skin, too. I turned away because I still didn't know what to think, what to trust. I hadn't thought that this was what he had had in mind when we walked down to the lake on our own, leaving John snoring in the car, hidden in the shadows from a merciless sun. Showering in 7/11s was tricky and I honestly had expected this to be nothing more than an innocent wash-up. Our body odor was unspeakable on that day, and yet I couldn't express enough gratitude over him taking me into his arms. We held each other tight and listened to the cicadas in the trees around us, to the small winds whistling through the treetops.

We never spoke about Lawrence throughout the entire trip. Even afterwards, it was a mere side note, only ever mentioned in superficial jokes. I never blamed Dean, and Dean never apologized. Back then, it was even worse with the wounds still fresh and aching. We were dangling on a light, light thread despite our unshakeable belief that we wanted to be with each other (he never told me but I have a feeling this applied to him as well). I never stopped being afraid of him as much as I never stopped fighting for him, for his life. I would die for him in a heartbeat. He knows that without ever hearing me say it.

We say a lot without saying anything at all. Looking back, it might have started in this car, along the road, with Dean's fatigue slowing everything down to a point where the flinch of a muscle was translatable into an entire paragraph. I found him watching me while I was waking up or while I was the one driving, maybe thinking I wouldn't notice, but of course I would. I never stopped keeping my mind on Dean.

So when he held me by the lake, I swear I felt him begging me for forgiveness. I felt it in the tight clutch of his arms, the timid span of his fingers, the angle of his head resting on my shoulder. We said nothing at all but when we parted and kissed again, we both knew we could make it. We both wanted to. It was one of those rare moments where I was sure of his feelings for me.

It had been long, very long, and his hands felt more than a little foreign on me. It left me a bit confused and so aroused I was afraid I would drown in it. With the added circumstance of no privacy, it had been five long, lonesome weeks. And that was only AL speaking - Dean's addiction had put a remarkable gap between our bodies, both chronologically and mentally. He kissed down my neck and caressed my back, over my shoulders, down my chest. He held my waist in his hands as he whispered my name, his name for me, "Sammy," he whispered, and it almost made me trip over the edge. I felt between his legs, but there was nothing. "Meds," he mentioned, and I nodded my pity over his embarrassment. My memory becomes a bit blurry around after he started running his palm over the fly of my jeans. I know his lashes tickled over my cheek when he pulled my dick out to finish me off in what could not have been more than a handful of too-soft touches. He kissed me more after shaking his hand in the lake water and started taking my clothes off. I was dizzy, still hot and still erect, I think. I got him naked as well and we skinny-dipped with our mouths on each other. He got me off another time and said he liked the way I wrinkle my forehead shortly before I come. We tried it again for him, but still nothing. He said it was okay. I said we could try again later. He said, "We've got all the time in the world, baby," and it felt like the truth.

We "tried" at every occasion. I was eighteen and in love, so what? It was all pretty romantic in my eyes. He would sneak away with me and caress and kiss me until I was about to burst (literally). He never had been like this with me before, not this consistently, and I felt cherished, even loved. I didn't know it could be like this to be with someone, let alone him. I liked it.

Three weeks into "trying", he let me get rid of his clothes and touch him longer than usual. It was a sign for me that he felt something and that he wanted me to keep going, but he remained limp. Lying back into the grass, his skin looked even paler than I knew it actually was. Underneath me, his thighs parted.

"Do me," I heard.

I looked down on him as if I hadn't understood. The balls of his feet nudged at my ass, pulling me deeper into the space between his legs. His hands laid themselves around my neck and I flinched, but they remained gentle. I watched his eyes drooping, his lips parting. I was unable to respond.

We both had had tests done which both had come away clean. Still, one of Dean's smallest voices whispered to me, "Am I grossing you out?"

Now, I understand what he had meant. It hadn't _not_ been about STDs, but they hadn't been the entire truth either. His addiction and Lawrence had been about more than what one can find out about in a laboratory.

Even if I had known back then, my answer still would have been, "Never." I kissed him. " _Dean_."

"There's lube in the back of my jeans," he offered as innocently as I can ever imagine him to have been like. I groaned as my dick throbbed between our stomachs.

"Only... o-only if you... if you really want me to..."

His turn to kiss me. "Please," I heard.

It was over too soon but the second round lasted a tad longer. He remained very quiet through all of it. I don't think he liked it too much. For me, I guess it was nice, but I was too nervous and it was too weird overall. This wasn't where I belonged. We both accepted it as a last straw in this particular moment, because Dean needed proof of my craving for him even after the ordeal he had put himself through these past years. He had been scared to death to be worthless and I only realized it as we lay next to each other, passion slowly drifting away from me; noticed it in his deep, deep sigh, the changed easiness in his fingers. Relieved. Dean was relieved.

Apart from this incident, he never encouraged me to fuck him ever again and it never occurred to me to ask. It's nothing I miss. I think about it sometimes, but it belongs to that summer, that willow in Nebraska, and I am okay with that thought.

Around a week later, he got hard again for the first time since Lawrence. By the time we finally managed to get him off with joined forces, we were both exhausted. The meds had him tasting like nothing I had known from him. If anything, the entire incident left Dean more frustrated than before. We tried again half an hour later, but to no avail. My reassurances that it was absolutely okay with me and that he shouldn't worry, that I was sure that it would work again eventually, didn't seem to reach him at all. He stroked my hair that night though, while John was sleeping in the backseat and while Dean thought I was asleep.

John taught me a lot about cars. My curiosity finally wasn't something inconvenient and he was happy to explain. Bent over the hood of their '67 beauty, we sipped soda and did not mind the sweat pouring down our naked chests. We got the worst sunburns but that was alright with us. When it was ready and we were in the backseat together, Dean stripped the peeling skin off of me with patient fingertips. A very innocent gesture. I knew it was, because he did it in broad daylight with John humming along to the Scorpions in the front seat. I closed my eyes over my efforts to hide the tent in my jeans with my legs and hands.

Salt Lake City was breathtaking. I don't know what it was that fascinated me but it stuck with me. John snuck away with a poor excuse for what I knew was some dubious way of getting his hands on credit cards and/or cash. I was left with Dean and ten bucks. He taught me how to hustle pool and even though it left us with a good three digit sum of winnings, I never used this skill again after the trip. Lawrence and pool tables leave me with bitterness. I avoid both, even today.

I was introduced to Mr. Singer aka the infamous Uncle Bobby I had heard so many stories about. He was skeptical about the visitors and their composition, but nobody asked questions. We stayed at his place for a week, until there was a case of missing bottles. Coals to Newcastle. Maybe we should have known. Not Dean's first post-medication rebound, definitely not his last, but there was only so much we could do about it. I was just starting to get along with Bobby, so I was sad enough to request Blacksburg, Virginia. It was good to see Doug again. The Winchesters freaked him out a little and vice versa. His hybrid must have disqualified him the moment we pulled up next to his driveway. Doug looked me deep in the eye and gave me a smile. "You look good," my uncle told me, and I smiled because I felt like it, too.

We watched the stars a lot. I whispered science to Dean's ears while he slept. Sometimes, it would tickle a smile from him. He held my hand as we walked the desert with blankets wrapped around us. I felt like a child and wonder if it was the same for him. We discovered and showed things to each other in this only seemingly lifeless nature - how to drink from a cactus, where scorpions like to hide, what sound variously sized rocks make when you let them drop down a canyon. We muttered about the sea and about sand, about what might have happened here before we found this place, who wandered this path before us.

The medication did things to Dean, and I don't know if I liked them. He was very different. Nothing really stirred him anymore. Mood changes and sleep, nausea and migraines went hand in hand. I liked the gentleness which really only was numbness and tiredness. It made him slur every now and then and that reminded me of Lawrence nights, and he noticed that and ended up not talking too much anymore altogether. He kissed me a lot to make up for it. I most certainly liked _that_.

What once had been a solid mass of muscle had faded from too little food and too many pills, his hair more brittle from the malnutrition, his nails not any better, skin thin and old. The trip was doing him good with all the sun and fresh air, regular food. He was puffy with water and fat. I traced every inch of his body, worshipped it just like I did the first time, just like I will probably do until the day one of us dies (which I try not to think about). Every cell is him: a masterpiece. I told him that under the new moon and he looked at me so openly confused it startled me. I asked him what was wrong, if I said something to upset him.

"How can you still be like this?" he breathed.

My mouth had nothing to open for.

He made love to me that night. It was nothing like anything he had ever done to me and it makes me ache to think about how it never happened ever again after he discontinued his medication. It was and yet wasn't sex. I don't know how to describe it. It happened again a few times after the desert, strewn in between what was more like what we used to do before his lows. I liked that, too. Passion and fire were coming back to us, leaving us breathless in a good way, smirking and sighing and moaning over how good it felt. It was like coming home after a long, tiresome journey. We both found that I had grown from what used to be a little boy, and he treated me a little different; better. I still needed him to hold me tight, tight enough to hurt sometimes, and he needed to hold and hurt, too. It matched. _We_ matched. That didn't change after the trip, not after the meds stopped, not with or during or after his countless affairs. These things hurt (oh, like sizzling knives to my guts and raw nerves, but I am alive, ain't I?), of course they did, but whenever it seemed to become too much, I remembered these times out in the open, the way his eyes rested on me like I was the only thing in his entire world, and it assured me that there was nothing to worry about. I was his. Am his; forever. We both know that.

San Francisco - beach, ice cream, sunburnt skin. When I say sand _everywhere_ , I mean sand _everywhere_. Dean got the worst rash and blamed me while I was the one scratching my asshole bloody. Fucking hate salt water. And sand. All that sand. Fuck sand. I must admit it was romantic to get it on at the beach, yes, but somehow all those things that should have been special according to what I had learned from society and media and whatnot were the least meaningful in my case. I found my joy in other things.

Like the smell of Dean's greasy hair. The sound of him and John humming or singing along in perfect harmony, splitting the duets (John preferred the women's parts whenever that was a choice) without a discussion. Dancing on my own when I sneaked away from both of them, just for the sake of it. The heat of a sun roasted car's metal under my by then roughened palms. The sensation of motor oil between my fingers. The smell of gasoline. The secret one-armed hug from John when Dean was busy yodeling profanities down Grand Canyon.

Those memories leave me smiling and dizzy with the warmth of a summer that blended into autumn, winter, spring. Cold slowed us down and motel rooms substituted the Impala's backseat, but our spirits kept stirring. I wondered if they had something like this before, when Dean and Jensen were younger, and I only learned - long after settling down with the Winchesters - that yes, they had. What kept me awake sometimes was the thought about how Dean might have walked these paths with his brother before. Not being the first one who held his hand, whom he smelled the pines of Cherokee National Forest with. I thought about asking Jensen several times since but always ended up deciding not to. The thoughts burn bright during some nights, but I turn my head a little and have Dean beside me, beside _me_ , and that's all I need to know.

With Dean slowly outgrowing his meds and John's worsening state, it all seemed to boil down to what would be happening next - what _I_ wanted to do next. The idea seemed insane to me. Me. _I_ was a factor in this. They cared about what _I_ wanted.

"College," I told them over half-eaten fries, hands folded in nervousness but eyes steady. They were listening intently, genuinely. It felt good. "Doesn't matter where."

"We can drop you off anywhere you want," John nodded.

There wasn't even enough time for me to shake my head along with my words. "No. With _you_. I want to stay with you guys."

We looked at each other for a long moment, them on the opposite side of the diner booth, meaningless current music our soundtrack.

Naturally, it was John who sighed and spoke first. His otherwise so sincere fingers drifted over the smooth metal of his fork. "Not gonna lie, son... It ain't gonna be easy."

"I know." I nodded without actually needing to make my point clear.

"We are not..." Eyes down, up to me again. "The most respectable people."

"Most respectable I could imagine, sir," I shot.

Dean chuckled, eyes closing while he sank deeper into his seat. Suddenly, I felt like being married to someone. My cheeks heated up.

"Please." I shuffled closer to the edge of my seat. "I swear I won't be a bother. I can work. I'll pay for my own stuff. I, I won't cause you any problems. So, please."

They look a lot alike, both too old and too young in their bodies. I could relate to them back then and I can relate today. We will never know what each other's hearts and hells look like, but we ride under the same sky, in the same car, did back then and sometimes it feels like we still do today. They have the same hint of pain stuck to their eyes, father and son, somehow my father and brother, my in-law and husband. The same worries about me, just a little boy who knows nothing about the world but them and a car full of problems and hauntings, a little boy whose entire future could depend on letting go of them and finding a safe life somewhere far far away from them. A little boy who, as I know by now, meant just as much to them as they meant to that little boy.

"That's what I want," I told them.

John averted his eyes and got lost in a frown for a while. Dean said nothing, just kept looking at me, eyes green and wide. We held contact across the table and I watched the passing cars' lights reflect in those wet somethings that he had to close eventually, over a huffed laugh and a rough set of fingers scratching almost idly along his jaw, his lashes. I had seen Dean crying before. What made my chest tight that night was the fact that he cried because of _me_ in that diner, next to his father, hugging himself tight, rubbing that traitorous liquid from his eyes as if it was excruciating to let it show. Which it probably was. Dean is like that.

"Let's get goin' then, I guess," I heard John say eventually. I caught Dean's small nod and another tear since I was unable to let my eyes slip away from him.

I was adopted and married that night, all secret and world-changing, over soda and sprinkles of salt. Not very conventional. Nothing about my life is, I guess. Our lives. Life.

Heather had kept her promise. All I took were Helm and another few clothes that miraculously still fit me. I was looked at like a stranger and I felt like one, too. I wasn't the son she had sent off without much remorse, but I was the son she watched leaving with his hair too long and his skin burnt to smooth brown, his eyes and heart and mind where his future waited for him at the side of the road.

Home on four wheels. Lover smoking a cigarette, movements like a god. Unyielding, warm warm eyes of a father, strong hands already around the steering wheel, destination already set and undiscussed. No need for that.

Leaving Lawrence behind for good, a family of three found itself singing Bad Company's "Seagull" at the top of their lungs.


	7. '04 to '14. Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: consensual (heavy (age 12) to less heavy (age 16)) underage, dubcon (not underaged), referenced child abuse

Summer '04.

Mitchel Carlson loses his front tooth to Dean's knuckles. Nobody pushes Jensen. Nobody.

Still, the adults say that Dean is the offender here, that he is to blame. They don't know what it makes Dean feel like to see his brother getting hurt - nobody except for Jensen, and maybe Dad. Dad who doesn't scold Dean but also doesn't think twice about moving them again earlier than planned. They hear something about Child Service and homes, and they have seen too much bad TV not to know what might be at stake.

It's Dean's fault that they have to move, all Dean's. But Jensen looks at him with so much glitter in his eyes for these next sweet days, lips so thin with how proud he is of his brother that he can barely take it, so Dean can't help but feel at least a little proud himself.

Dean scratches the scab on his hand bloody for weeks in order not to let it fade just yet.

\---

22th January '08.

Dean doesn't think about it before he makes his move, and maybe it's better like that. He doesn't know what he expected from kissing his brother's mouth. Jensen looks him in the eye when Dean pulls back, not shocked, not particularly impressed. Sort of how Dean feels inside. _Exactly_ how Dean feels inside.

Their mouths meet again a few times, short contacts that grow fonder bit by bit. Testing the waters. Dean expects his heart to beat faster like it happens in cartoons; head over heels, life-changing. He either doesn't do it right or he has been lied to by the world yet again.

"It's nice," Dean says after a while. His hand covers the back of his brother's.

Jensen nods and says, "Yeah."

They both feel like shrugging.

\---

Summer '08.

It feels amazing on own already, but nothing compares to the sensation of Jensen's skin on his dick. Like his own hand. A phantom pain. They work each other in tandem. Dean comes when Jensen kisses his neck and jolts when Jensen bites. In order to stop the ceiling from spinning, Dean closes his eyes.

\---

Christmas '09.

At first, he laughs, because it has to be a joke. But Jensen stays firm and urges him to open it. So Dean's smile is stuck to his lips when he rips newspaper wrappings aside, and it freezes where it is when the content slides into his lap.

While Jensen explains how not every necklace is per se effeminate and that he thought it would suit Dean, and didn't Dean stare at the stall as they marched over the market where they were selling these?, Dean goes through so many emotions at once that his face can't keep up, remains blank.

"Do you like it?" Jensen tries, eyes him with his brows knitted together.

Dean has no words.

\---

Spring '11.

It's alright sharing a skateboard, a girl, a shirt, a guy, a meal. Splitting is easy when you are close enough to sense when the other needs what you have left. There never is a grudge over passing something over. Tools, toys - everything is.

Maybe Jensen was right when he said Dean shouldn't board with an already broken arm (Dad didn't mean it), but fuck, only two weeks into owning it and he is supposed to just _sit_ there? No way. The fun lasts for two entire hours but the fall and crash makes even _him_ scream, sharp and short, and he bites his tongue bloody through the rest of it.

It's alright because Jensen is there, Jen, not Officer but Nurse Jenny when he has to, and Dean can watch the soft movements of eyes, fall of lashes as his arm is examined, and the pain is only half as bad like this, honestly. His twin curses under his breath, calls him an "idiot" and "reckless" and Dean can only smile because yeah, yeah, he is.

They don't cry easily, neither of them. They wonder about it sometimes, if maybe it wouldn't be better to just let it go. What do some tears of relief change about a man's strength? But Dad taught them, and Dad's lessons were (are) thorough. And Dean can understand.

Because when it's just them - just Jensen and him and nothing but a cast and a blanket between them, when Dean watches the rise and fall of that chest, mouths along where he can see his brother's blood pulsing gently through the vessel on his neck -, then Dean knows that one unguarded moment could let his heart combust.

\---

Autumn '13.

Sixteen years and eight months and because the world is such a rotten place, they are not only waved through but also throw back shots in the matter of minutes. As long as they arrive with a crowd of girls - and they always do -, no bouncer looks twice at their only superficially matured faces. Tonight's girls believed them when they said they were eighteen - enough consent. They've all been there, the girls tell them, and there are excited giggles over an arm around a waist or a hand on an ass. Enough consent.

They put on confidence like cologne, like a fresh shirt. It's easy at this point. Smile right, put your words right, put your hands in the right places. Drink, smile, drink more. Eventually, smiling will feel natural, your body will feel light, you will feel in place, untouchable.

So Dean swallows something clear and sharp, almost antiseptic, and a thought over to home, to Dad appears, but he saw his sons leave and was too busy with whatever to even ask them where they were headed. So Dean smoothens himself against one of their girls (some sorority herd from the local college), a smart, blonde thing that grins at him as if he was adorable, something she could taint with her wickedness and low-cut sequin top. She has no idea. Dean likes them most like this.

She asks if Dean is alright, drapes an arm around his back, so Dean does the same to her, nods his "yes", savors the spin in his head, the warmth in his guts. She smiles and looks at Dean's lips, eyes, lips. Dean kisses her because it's so, so easy. She tastes like tequila and lemon and he contemplates asking if she'll have another if he offered his neck to her salt shaker.

She smells like nice perfume, not the cheap stuff. Dean runs his nose along her neck and she cranes it for more. She's an easy girl, and Dean would never judge her for that. Easy girls and easy boys work well together. He likes it easy.

Opening his eyes, he cradles her in his arms in time with the music, smooth little moves that allow her to melt against him, to feel the tightness of his growing muscles. She does, of course she does, and Dean doesn't have to search long to find Jensen in the crowd. After a few drinks, Jensen becomes a dancer. A good one even, and Dean always wonders where his brother picked up this skill. Then again, most people would title what is currently happening between Jensen and his own share of college freshman "dry humping" instead of "dancing". One way or another - it's spectacular.

Dean could watch his brother for hours; those eyes always almost shut, lips parted, body swaying and grinding in a secret rhythm that doesn't match with the music as long as you don't listen exactly, if you're not part of it, are not caught in the orbit that seems to surround Jensen (maybe Dean, too). Jensen's limbs become loose and easy like his back, his hips. Dean likes to joke that if all else fails, they could still become strippers. Jensen always rolls his eyes at that.

Jensen's eyelids drag up some more than usual, high enough for him to find Dean all the way across the dancefloor, and Dean mirrors the rise of corners of mouth, the dirty little conversation they establish whenever, wherever. The light is shit, a hundred people are dancing in between them, and Jensen still manages to read the raise of Dean's eyebrow, the smallest nod; and he smiles wider, turns and laughs into whatshername's hair. Dean watches his brother kiss this girl, and suddenly there is nothing more important than to be right there with them.

So he gestures into the vague direction of some of Blondie's friends who just fought their way to the bar, urges her to have another drink with them. He disappears then, almost ducks his head, shimmies along bodies. He once saw a documentary about Marilyn Monroe where she presented how she can turn her charm on and off, how people don't even notice that she exists when she's "not" Marilyn, how they crane their necks when she "is". Dean reasons Jensen and him haven't found this glorious switch yet, hopes they will one day, and comforts himself with the fact that Dad's training brings them as close to invisibility as they can possibly get. Once he's with his twin, Dean wishes he could shut out everyone else, could vanish into thin air before their eyes, from their hands. They are nothing to him.

He fits so well against Jensen's back, his hands so well around this small waist that should feel familiar by now but always burns him anew, always, always; and the girl looks at him with wide eyes when she notices how her and Jensen are not alone anymore, but maybe she thinks she is seeing in doubles or she can get used to the idea, so she smiles and then laughs. Jensen kisses her neck and Dean inhales their shared cologne from his brother's sweaty skin.

The girl's hands are in the back pockets of Jensen's jeans but it's not like it makes any difference for Dean who grinds his crotch right there. Dean's hands sneak up Jensen's stomach, his chest, then flip to cup the girl's tits. She presses into his touch, probably dripping wet by now, and maybe Haley had told her about last weekend, about how good it feels to get your clit licked and your pussy fucked at the same time. She's in for it, of course she is, and the twins have yet to run into a situation that doesn't go this exact way. Jensen jokes how they are a sexual bear trap, that once someone is in, there is no escape, and Dean always has to laugh because it's so cruel and perfect and them.

Jensen's skin fits so well between Dean's teeth. He mouths around a delicate silver necklace - Jensen's newest trophy, and it's too adorable, really - and flicks the girl's nipples through shirt and bra, then turns his hands back to Jensen's chest, does the same here. It's crammed, sweaty and hot, almost exactly like sex with how Jensen works his hips, with how hard Dean's dick is. His left hand goes down, gropes, grins.

What a lovely night.

It gets even better when they take the girl to the restrooms, press their fingers to their lips to indicate her to be quiet. Her giggles are cute and excused. Jensen kisses Dean while she kneels in front of them and sucks both their dicks with the enthusiasm of a good American girl. Dean pants, leans heavy against the stall with his arm around Jensen's shoulders and Jensen's around his own, groans because she is really damn good and because Jensen's hand on his naked arm, his drenched armpit over his shoulder just do things to Dean nobody would let him get away with.

And when Jensen tells her to finish Dean off, only Dean, not him, yeah baby, just leave it like that, perfect, then Dean knows this night is gonna be _really_ good.

They leave the club an hour later; leave both club _and_ girls. The night air is just about right for the fires under their skins and Dean's hand fits so well into the back pocket of Jensen's jeans, so much better than this girl's they will have forgotten about in a few days' time. Dean, on the other hand, will _always_ be here.

Dad stirs on the couch when they let themselves in without caring too much about the noise they are making, and Dean says, "Sorry," while Jensen laughs, "Fuck yourself." In their room, Jensen tells him to strip and to get on all fours on the bed. Dean stumbles over his own feet and maybe his own drool, arranges himself like he is told to, neck and ass tense, toes curled. "Ass out," Jensen reminds in a whisper; always whisper with Dad around, always, because there are places for sick boys like them, aren't there? Dean can barely see straight but dips his hips deeper, always, whatever Jensen asks for.

Jensen's fingers know what to do, just like his dick. Dean can barely breathe with how wide it seems to stretch him, always, forever. He reaches back to grab one of Jensen's wrists, lets his bloodshot face get stuffed deep and hard into the bedding. He can scream into it, moan and drool, and all of it is swallowed. He needs no air when Jensen fucks him like this.

"Bet he knows," rasps Jensen, and Dean sobs.

The room is filled with wet smacks of skin on skin, filthy and oh dear God, Dad can't hear them, can he? He never does.

A hard smack of hand on ass darts over the regular noise like the slash of a whip.

Dean's body is on fire.

"Bet Dad knows, Dean, knows you're on your knees for me, lettin' me fuck you; bet he can fuckin' _smell_ it on us."

Dean can do pretty much nothing about his eyes going wet, but the pillows are there and they are saving him, drink everything up, everything.

"Daddy's good little girl," Jensen grunts through his teeth, digs his fingers hard and harder into Dean's hips. Dean feels like tearing apart all over, and oh, _oh_.

Nobody can give it to him like Jensen can.

\---

May '14.

Jensen's fingers actually are magic wands made from carpet-rough flesh and diamond bones, but Dean doubts that anybody but him has ever given them enough thought to figure it out. He could write poems about every single digit; novels. If someone needed an encyclopedia on Jensen Winchester's body, Dean would deliver twenty volumes.

Jared's hands are bland. Too big, too hasty. He has no idea how to use them. The tongue is alright, so Dean lets it into his mouth. The stubble could be Jensen's if he is generous, but the skin and the cock under and in Dean's hands could never give him that illusion. He takes what he can get. Jensen likes this guy, so they fuck this guy. Easy as that. Jensen is here, so everything is good.

Jensen had turned Jared down and said, "No, it's Dean's turn," so it's Dean's turn. He is getting Jensen's fingers and could come on them. They are masterpieces and know Dean's insides just like Dean's fingers know Jensen's. It's an intimacy both of them have failed to find anywhere else. Nothing compares to this, to them. Dean's leg is being lifted over Jared's hip, open and slick where Jensen is still opening him up for something Dean doesn't particularly want but takes. That's okay. Jensen kisses his neck, so it's okay.

His twin laughs mischievously as something that definitely is not Jared's dick fucks itself up into Dean's ass. Dean jolts, chokes. Just when Dean wants to grab behind himself to get a hold of Jensen, Jensen tells Jared, "Hold his wrists." It's too fast, so Jared wins. Dean tries to kick. He doesn't get far.

There is nowhere to run, and Dean's eyes flutter, then squeeze shut. He presses his face into Jared's bedding that smells like all three of them, tries to muffle his sounds but gets his face turned back up where there is air and a mouth that stutters, "Oh fuck."

Dean wrenches himself loose, feels his whole body clenching under the urge to hold everything back; the pleasure and the tears and everything, and he begs, "No, Jen, don't," because he can't take it, not in front of someone else, especially not Jared who knows way too much already anyway. Not this, too. Never this.

"Let's show Mr. Padalecki how pretty you look; so pretty crying on my dick, baby."

Jensen's moan is honey, the rut from his hips perfection. Dean could choke on it at every taste, every hint. Nobody makes him feel like Jensen does.

Doesn't Jensen know? Doesn't he know how this, all of this, Dean himself - that it's all for Jensen and nobody else?

Dean sobs into a wrong mouth, is being wedged and pushed against a wrong body, can't see Jensen or anything with tears brimming his eyes, and we don't cry, Dean, men don't cry, Dean, God, stop whining, stop looking at me with those eyes, Dean.

By the time Jensen finished and Jared takes his turn, Dean's tears have dried up.


	8. Journal excerpts. John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: drug addiction, drug withdrawal, suicide attempt(s), alcoholism, child abuse, ptsd, abusive relationship, aftermath of violence, hospitals  
> All typos are intentional.

January 24, 1997.

My angel,

it’s been one year but your boys don’t know what “days” are. I left them with your parents tonight. I had no choice, angel; they have your eyes. I can’t bear to look at them. Not today.

The thought that you’ll never get to meet them haunts me every day, every minute. I try to hold myself together for our babies, but it’s so awfully lonely without you.

Nothing tastes of anything anymore. I drink a lot. I am so sorry.

January 30, 1997.

My angel,

your parents called the CPS on me. I was back just in time, grabbed the boys, vanished. How could they betray us like this? Everything changed down here since you left. I am lost without you. I cannot lose the boys. Not them. They’re everything that is left of you.

April 12, 1997.

My angel,

we found a new home. You would like it here. Your boys are beautiful and so, so smart. Jensen can say “daddy” and “more”. Dean stays as silent as ever, but his hands; oh, Mary.

They’re always hungry, your boys. The savings are thinning out. I am looking for work, but it’s not easy without giving the babies to someone, and I don’t want that. What if they are taken from me again? The fear won’t let me sleep.

June 02, 1997.

A friend directed me to someone, for work. Finally a flicker of hope. I will do whatever it takes, I promise.

June 05, 1997.

Dearest Mary,

please forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. It has to be. Our babies need food and clothes, Mary, so please, please don’t watch me too closely.

I never wanted to be like this. I think of you, the boys. ~~My work~~ I am sorry.

October 15, 1997.

Angel,

again, I had to take our boys away. Nobody lets us be in peace. Maybe this family is haunted.

I think of you every day. When I kiss their heads, I smell the milk you could never feed them.

Forgive me.

December 25, 1997.

My angel,

your boys hold on to my hands and walk beside me. They got a teddy bear each; the brand you always eyed with a sigh and this dreamy gaze of yours. They handle the bears with just the same affection. I could afford these presents and moreover paid back most of my debts. I’ll soon be able to start a college fund for our boys. The pay is good, but ~~the job is so~~ I am still looking for honest work. It’s not easy. Nobody wants a head-crippled ex-Marine with two little babies. I am doing my best. Please believe me.

The boys ask about every little thing they see. If I weren’t so happy, I would be exhausted. You should hear their laughter, angel. Who needs carols?

December 31, 1997.

ImissyouImissyouImissyou

January 25, 1998.

I lost time. I woke up somewhere else. I drank through yesterday and the entire last night. Back home, your boys were playing with their teddy bears and looked at me like I was a ghost. Overflowing diapers, filth smeared everywhere, floor flooded. Apparently, one of them knows how to turn on the tap water. What if they couldn’t have, if they wouldn’t have found anything to drink at all?

Oh Mary. Oh Mary.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

May 06, 1998.

Unexpected turn at work. Had to leave town. Forgot Jensen’s bear. He won’t stop crying. Why am I even running?

August 17, 1998.

Dearest Mary,

I miss you. The boys are miracles. They love the summer, like you. I can’t bring myself to cut their hair—blond curls, like yours. They are playing in the mud. I gave up on telling them not to eat it. Their laughter gets me through the days. They grow up so fast that I can barely dare to blink.

I try to keep them away from the pain that I am going through. We only have each other. What am I supposed to answer when they ask why all the other little boys have mommies?

November 28, 1998.

Lovely angel,

sleep won’t come to me. I haven’t eaten in three days. I drink so much. I wish I was with you.

January 24, 1999.

Let me die. This earth is no place for me.

July 23, 1999.

My angel,

our boys grow and talk non-stop. I try to make sense out of it, to listen to them, I really try. I try to get them to sleep in separate beds now that Dean is dry and Jensen isn’t, but they won’t have that. I can’t bring myself to lock the rooms and they are smart enough to work the handles. I wish you were here to see them. When they sleep curled in and around each other, they remind me of your belly, the ultrasound pictures, your and our tears of joy.

I wish you were here. I am not enough.

December 06, 1999.

Dear angel,

winter, always winter. Why do they always chase us down in winter? The boys are crying, the car’s heater is broken, I have twenty dollars left to my name and the gas is almost gone. I tried not to yell, but it makes them stop for a little, little while. I cannot escape. Please watch over us, I am begging you.

January 24, 2000.

They asked where I was going. I couldn’t answer. I locked the doors and heard them banging against it from the other side. Forgive me, my dear, forgivemeforgivem

March 11, 2000.

The days are rough and grey. Jensen played with my wallet and found your picture. I think they know. I have no time, no energy. I am dragging through hours like molasses, head up, always up, praying you are not watching me rot.

Maybe Heaven is no destination for your husband.

September 16, 2000.

Another move. Your boys are tough. They will be great men someday.

January 23, 2001.

They will be old enough for school next year. The thought rips me apart.

September 11, 2001.

Angel,

You wouldn’t believe what happened today. I still cannot fathom it yet. It’s incredible how much horror something as simple as a human being can bring to thousands of others.

December 27, 2001.

Mary,

your boys didn’t have a proper Christmas again this year; forgive me. They are long old enough to notice, now old enough to ask, to complain. My heart tears over their demanding voices, so innocent, Mary, and they don’t know any better, but I can’t bear to hear it. We can barely afford to live. Who the hell even invented Christmas trees? It’s not fair, Mary, it’s not fair.

January 25, 2002.

I am still shaking. I will probably never stop, ever again. I know you saw. You saw what I did, Mary, and I am crying at the thought of that. ~~I disapp~~ ~~How am I ever going to~~ ~~What am I~~

Did you see him coming to me, looking so much like you, and requesting, all snot-nosed and so so so incredibly much like you? He called me “daddy” and still I couldn’t take it. What am I? I can’t tell you this anymore. I am not worthy of the word “human”. I am not worthy of being the father of your children, Mary.

His eyes were so wide, Mary, did you see them? In shock first and pity later. Such small arms, and he still tried to wrap them all around his fath ~~monster~~ me. You must have heard him, soothing me, him soothing _me_ , because I was crying back then already, shocked and disgusted. Dean didn’t cry. He still hasn’t up to this very hour. But, Mary, I swear, his eyes aren’t the same.

I swear, my angel, I swear to God and the Heavens above, I will never, ever do it again. I cannot. I won’t become like this. I am stronger than this, believe me, you have to believe me.

May 05, 2002.

I almost killed a man today, Mary. There are monsters out there, I’m telling you, and for a second I was close, very close, to getting rid of one. I’ve never been this angry, this revolted. He reminded me of myself, in a way, and that worsened my anger, clenched my fist like iron. I changed my mind in the last minute, somehow overcome by rationality—what if someone would see, what if they’d take me away, what would happen to the boys _then_?—and if we hadn’t been on the run anyway, this would have been the point for it to happen.

I will hold them so tight tonight, tight enough to feel their heartbeats against me, their breath, making sure they are alive and well. This is an urge I have, the only meaning left in my life. I will keep them safe, your boys, no matter the price.

August 28, 2002.

Only their second week of school and the teacher already called me to come “have a talk”. It turned out Jensen bit another child. Oh Mary. What am I supposed to do? Of course I asked him why, and he looked me straight in the eye and said the kid was being mean to Dean. I had to ask him _twice_ if this is how we deal with problems until he finally shook his head, eyes to the floor. You cannot imagine the panic grasping me, shaking me. I thought he hadn’t seen it. I thought Dean hadn’t told him. It was close, but it didn’t happen again. Not Jensen, too, I thought. I drove him to the family’s home, had him apologize to the kid and be the perfect little boy he can be when he wants to. I brought Dean, too, to teach them both. We respect. We don’t use unnecessary violence. I felt sick to my stomach, aware of Dean watching me scolding his brother, being a hypocrite, turning what had happened into some kind of…of lie? I don’t know where said lie starts or where it ends.

December 17, 2002.

When I drink, too much, for example right now, I punish myself by forcing the feeling of his cheek back under my palm. Then I throw up, drink more, fall asleep. My nights are full of nightmares, but I take them gratefully. More punishment, and I deserve it. I know.

January 23, 2003.

I miss you so bad, my love.

March 11, 2003.

Angel,

The police are on our heels and I had to gather the boys, shoved them in the car, drove. We drove for days. They didn’t complain, just sat it out. Dean didn’t even do anything, neither of them did, but it happened again, I did it again, and I recoiled immediately the second it was done. I heard Dean explain that he stumbled, fell, to his brother, in the backseat, my hand shaking so hard I almost drove us into a ditch, god knows how often. I barked about it being the ratty street’s fault, yelled at every little sound they made. It didn’t help. I couldn’t get rid of the voices, my voice, the weight of Dean’s eyes. He’s worried, so worried.

I failed. I am a failure. I failed.

April 02, 2003.

Dear Mary,

Our new home is small but the boys adapted well to the change. Only one concerned note on Dean’s homework so far; no calls, no fights. They are doing good. My contact got me work here, so I am filling up our pockets, gave the boys a small allowance. It will be a good lesson. I am very proud, and you would be, too. They smile so much. I have a feeling we’re off to a good start.

September 18, 2003.

I can’t believe this kid. Almost took an eye out from that poor girl, and he won’t tell me why. Jensen says nothing, either. Dean said nothing before or after I took him aside, just accepted, stared at the floor. It was then that a sudden wave of migraine overtook me, splitting my head in two (and isn’t that ironic?), and he was right there, cheek still not even reddened yet, and he stroked my back and whispered that all is going to be well. I thought this is it. I thought—this is God, punishing me. I had no doubt. When I could breathe again, not even see straight, Mary, I couldn’t take it and you have to understand me, understand my pain and it’s all worthless anyway. Dean involuntarily cried, held his nose, said nothing. We were both lying on the ground, shaking hard with pain and hopelessness, and I thought—I haven’t felt that close, that empathic with anyone in…forever. He didn’t look at me. I didn’t look at him. He said “sorry”.

December 23, 2003.

Waking up in sweat, my own vomit. I smell like smoke, wonder why, find cigarette butts stomped out around me, staining the kitchen counter. I watch Jensen clean my filth away later that morning, watch him with some kind of disgust he must be feeling for me too, but he eventually brings me a bowl of cornflakes and says he’s sorry that he doesn’t know how the coffee machine works, and he says “daddy”. I eat, trying to remember when it was the last time one of them called me that.

January 24, 2004.

My love,

Your grave is so many states over. Our home. Our lives. Why us? Why did this have to happen to us? I will bring them one day, Mary, will show them where you lie all peaceful and forever, and I will tell them stories and show pictures. I swear, one day I will.

July 13, 2004.

Dean did it again. Why do they have to attract so much trouble? This time they told me the kid was bullying Jensen. I had nothing left to say; I am done. I figure—what gives? It’s their right. They shouldn’t be pushed around. I believe them when they say the other boy started it. What reason to lie would they have? But it’s the godknowshowmany time this has happened ever since we arrived and the parents are furious, outraged at my “feral little bastards” as they titled them, in front of the boys, practically foaming at their mouths. I said nothing, grabbed the boys, and again we packed, forgot half of it, and now we’re driving. I don’t know where. Doesn’t feel like it matters.

September 04, 2004.

We stayed away from civilization as long as my savings allowed, then went to Robert. I introduced the boys, and he was in love instantly. Things are not going well with his Karen and maybe I’m an asshole but it’s good that she’s not here. Couldn’t take the sight of a woman, cooking, loving her husband, being alive. Robert still likes to drink, so we do that together, and the boys have unlimited space to play outside. We spend our days like this, and it’s good. Drifting, shallowly existing. I know it won’t last forever, but pretending makes it almost real. My migraines won’t clear but the booze distracts just enough. I almost don’t dream. Feels like heaven.

January 24, 2005.

I almost did something stupid, but Dean stopped me in the last moment. God knows how he knew, how he found me. I thought I had locked the door.

I love him so much, both of them, you have no idea, Mary. You would love them even more, I’m sure.

I wish we could be together.

May 07, 2005.

Mary,

Your boys are growing and growing. I decided to be more present again, to spend more time with them, and my last job paid well enough to let me take it slow for now. They learn quickly and there are improvements already. We take everything down, every number; each of them has a little notebook and a pen. Dean is incredibly eager, even a little more than Jensen. It feels so good to see him engaging in something so excitedly, alive. The exercise does us all good. Food makes sense again.

I want them to fit in. They have to become respectable boys, loyal and strong. I teach them what I still remember from my recruit training and when I see their tense, eager expressions, I feel nothing but pride. I see myself, back when I was younger, and something like hope reaches out for me. I was good back then, wasn’t I?

We’re good, Mary. Your men are good.

February 13, 2006.

My angel,

Today marks the day of my first body since Somalia. It all happened so fast. I wish you were here to hold me. I can barely write or sit, breathe; my stomach feels like ripping apart, my head like a pulsing ball of agony. They gave me pills which I probably took too many of, but they don’t help nearly enough. I try to accept it—the pain, the guilt. It wasn’t planned to happen. It wasn’t even a big job, I

June 03, 2006.

The second.

May 21, 2007.

My angel,

Your boys grow so fast. Jensen is getting the hang of the gun, but Dean is a natural. You know I know you don’t like hearing this, no. But the world down here, angel—it’s cruel. I have no choice.

January 29, 2008.

The snow is thick. I watch the boys throwing snowballs. It’s almost dinner time, but I just can’t bring myself to call them inside just yet.

June 06, 2010.

I don’t know what it is with them. The car broke down, middle of the fucking desert. I come back with help and there they are, some trucker or I don’t even know, and they’re all over him like some shiny new toy, and. What am I supposed to do here. Why won’t they listen. I’m scared of them. Why must they be so reckless? They’re only kids, for God’s sake... What would _you_ do, Mary?

June 30, 2011.

We need money, fast, and my head is churning. Are there nationwide records on people who bail on hospital bills? I try not to risk finding out the hard way. Dean needs that doctor, no way around that, even though he insisted there’s no need. He’d been so pale. I still shiver thinking about it. The cast makes him look younger, thinner. Have I been feeding them well enough these past few years? What does a growing boy need? I feel like ‘96 all over again and I lock myself in, ignoring Jensen’s rising voice that demands for something, anything, me, but I can’t give. Nothing. I drink, sleep, drink, sleep. Money. Work. I think about it non-stop.

March 06, 2012.

My back is bad and migraines keep me on the very cusp of consciousness even in my sleep. The nightmares are my punishment. I failed and I’m the only one to blame for that. I deserve it and yet I complain. I’m a lost case, I guess.

We’ll lay low for a while; gotta get my feet back on the ground. Our new place isn’t the best, but the boys are (as always) holding up alright.

May 11, 2012.

The neighbor is one noisy sonofabitch. I’ll have to keep an eye out for that one. Something doesn’t feel right about him...but maybe I just don’t like seeing the boys bonding with strangers. Maybe I want to protect them from the pain. We can’t stay here forever, after all, and they should know better. They’re lonely though, and I can understand. I out of everyone can understand.

August 27, 2012.

They’re at his place again. It’s almost midnight even though Dean said they would be back by ten. Half a bottle of whiskey left in front of me, I listen with the TV muted. They are laughing, all three of them. It fills me with embarrassment to sit here like this. I shouldn’t have to spy on my own sons to hear them laugh.

February 01, 2013.

He looks at me as if I was a monster, and maybe I am. I wonder which of them told him about me but maybe all it takes to understand it all is to spare more than a passing glance. I questioned Dean but he kept staring right at me, insisting they didn’t spill a word, that the guy knows nothing about us. I made him show me the bruise from last week which is— _finally_ —starting to fade. His eyes didn’t meet mine anymore after that.

June 05, 2013.

Jensen said he hates me.

I can’t describe how that felt... Like falling down one cold, endless well, maybe. If Dean was even in the room, he neither moved nor made a sound. I probably wouldn’t have felt a bullet through my chest though, so I couldn’t tell.

“Hit me,” Jensen had said. Asked me to finally make it even, Dad, _fair_ , he said; pounced in front of me like a juvenile monkey of some sort, provoking me. When I didn’t react, he kept venting at me, trying to get me to do whatever he wanted me to do. He said terrible things but I guess all of them are true one way or the other. Things were happening inside of me, ugly things, but I kept them safe, kept the animals down, Mary, the monsters. The disgust in your son’s eyes when he glared at me was motivation enough. I did nothing. Said nothing. What would have been the alternative, really? Not sure if I could have done anything if I had wanted to. Once he had enough and left, I, after a very long time, allowed myself to cry again. I still am crying as I am writing now. I can hear the boys fighting in their room, very distant, and one of them left just now but I have no power left to raise my head to see what is going on. The one left behind is sobbing now, too, just punched or kicked something; I heard something shattering against a wall. I can’t remember the time where it had been enough for me to crush a lifeless object under my hands or feet. I feel sick. I keep breathing.

June 26, 2013.

I’m better today, just in time for a job offering. I guess I’ve been on hold for long enough. Money is not tight yet but why wait, right?

Earlier, Dean brought me some leftovers from our ‘good neighbor’. He sat with me while I ate and stayed afterwards, too. A lot of space between us on the couch but it meant the world to me to have his company. It’s been way too long. They’re always at school or across the hallway and when I’m not working, my head is occupied with keeping everything straight, to shake off the depths. I feel like I haven’t seen my children in years, and it pains me. Dean told me that they’re both fine, that I shouldn’t worry. His finger looks crooked but he withdrew it from my plain sight and smiled softly, so much like you, my angel, and he said _it’s nothing_.

Sometimes, I wonder how they would be holding up if I was

October 07, 2013.

They went out without asking. I’m too exhausted to care. I took three of th plls an h

May 02, 2014.

Almost broke a rib of his a few days back, and yet he takes care of me. The more Jensen withdraws, the more Dean seems to gravitate towards me. They are one very delicate scale, your boys; probably fueled by fear. Maybe he enjoys seeing me writhing in misery. Maybe this is his revenge—still loving me despite everything that I’ve done.

Everything hurts.

August 03, 2014.

Since the last job paid so well, I took the boys fishing for the weekend, outside of town. Dean was quiet and Jensen complained non-stop, but overall I still think it did us good. How long I haven’t truly looked at our boys, Mary! They’re almost adults now. It made me incredibly sad, still makes me sad. I watched them sitting with me in silence, waiting for a fish to bite, and I realized I don’t know them at all. They could have been strangers, on the other side of the lake, of the goddamn world. Stunned by this loss, I was unable to start a conversation.

November 15, 2014.

Don’t wait for me, Mary, as I won’t go where you went...

The blood won’t come off, angel.

January 23, 2015.

They won’t be home, probably are with ~~the ne~~ Padalecki again. I’ll head out anyway. It’s become a habit, didn’t it, my love? Here’s to you.

July 20, 2015.

Finally a chance to breathe again. It was close, almost too close, and my heart won’t stop beating the shit out of me. I’m scared, Mary, that I won’t escape this time. Mary, I’m senseless. Jensen has stopped talking to me altogether now but he knew we would move eventually, he _must_ have; he isn’t stupid after all, he’s so so _smart_ , you shouldseeh is grades, Mary, he’s a miracle. I just hope he’ll calm down again soon, hopefully, or I’ll lose my mind for good. Our good Dean is taking care of the family now, especially of me. I think I cried in front of him earlier today when I was scared shitless; the shadows and the blackness were caving in on me and I didn’t know if I would make it but he was there, Mary, he saved me, _again_.

July 22, 2015.

Dean is now our only financial support and won’t even let me _try_ to help. I am too weak to make my point and maybe that’s what makes him so confident nowadays. Jensen still won’t look my way. I am helpless against it all and don’t see a way out.

July 30, 2015.

Confronted the kid who was snooping around the house today; had enough. He isn’t dangerous though, just a kid, after all. What was I thinking? He seems to be a friend of the boys, younger, terribly skinny, but very sharp mind. We had a few rounds of chess and coffee. If it was the game or the company that uplifted me today, I cannot tell you, but it _did_ help a lot. Samuel seems like a good kid, Mary. Very well behaved. Reminds me of the type of people I wanted our boys to grow up to be like, and I ask myself—where did I go so wrong? What happened?

August 01, 2015.

Padalecki just came to pick up Jensen. I couldn’t get out a single word. It all made sense all of a sudden, and I felt like throwing up or breaking his neck, maybe Jensen’s, too; everyone’s. He talked to me, said things I still cannot believe, offered his help that I obviously declined politely. That made Jensen laugh somehow. It turns out to have been his last crumble of communication directed at me. I tried to see my son’s face but he had already turned his back to me. What should I have said? What _could_ I have said? Nothing could have stopped them. I missed that chance a long time ago. Can’t believe I let myself get fooled like that, that I couldn’t protect my children from this ~~ped~~ sick bastard. I cannot begin to put together what it does to me to have my son choose someone like this over me, over our family. I think I ruined it all, and now I have to deal with the consequences.

I should have known better, back then. Now it’s too late. I should have known something was wrong when they started fighting. They hadn’t done that in a long while now. I should have known.

August 05, 2015.

Dean still isn’t back yet.

October 11, 2015.

Samuel keeps me company waiting for Dean. We drink coffee until we’re both shaking. He’s just as restless as me and won’t go home even when I tell him to. He’s as stubborn as Jensen and it’s unfair, oh God I know, but he’s here and Jensen isn’t and I cannot bear the loneliness right now. I’m just a father, just a human being! I’m scared of myself, of the depths inside of me, how much more my soul is able to hurt, to twist. Samuel though is here with me, and I am not alone. He has this kind of young, unbreakable hope that inspires me to keep going on. You’d understand if you’d see him, angel. That kid is all that is good in this world.

December 23, 2015

I couldn’t take it anymore and confronted Dean today – and his indifference, his arrogance... I never had hit him in front of someone else before and he looked stunned for a second, but my sanity was already gone, out of control, and Samuel must have watched it all but didn’t make a sound. I think I chipped a few of his teeth, definitely broke my hand, and I was out of breath and shaking with so much more still inside of me (rage – disgust – shame – failure – horror) and he spat blood at me when he spoke, when he asked, “Feel better now?” I collapsed. I now lie on a hospital bed, Samuel by my side. Dean, again, is gone.

January 26, 2016

I’m losing him. He’s right here, right upstairs, I hear him moving around, somehow living and yet not—and I’m losing him.

January 30, 2016.

Samuel pretends not to want to flinch away every time I move. I notice though but am incapable of composing an explanation, let alone an apology. Would I accept his forgiveness?

March 23, 2016.

Dean hasn’t been home in three days now. Samuel won’t answer his phone. I’m positive he’s with Dean though. At least my head stopped pounding.

April 19, 2016.

Things are going wrong, so wrong. Everyone is losing weight, even Sam, and the kid is so pale I can’t understand how he hasn’t broken down yet. He tries to hide it from me of course, visits me every day after school and tries to get food into me as if he was my goddamn nurse. He can still make jokes and isn’t offended when I can’t laugh.

May 06, 2016.

They turned off both water and electricity. I just called my contacts to get me something, anything, so I can at least get the water back. I’m not at my best but it has come to the point where even someone as tired as me is more reliable than my son. I’m—at least—partly responsible for this mess. I’ll stand up for it.

May 12, 2016.

The migraines are killing me but Dean is home and we have water. He let me ~~feed~~ cook him the tomato rice soup, you know which one. He sat with me for an hour afterwards. Neither of us found a word to say, but God, I was happy.

The days stretch endlessly.

June 20, 2016.

Awake from a noise downstairs, I run into Sam, hands and face covered in blood, over the kitchen sink. I have to double-take, ask where Dean is, but there’s no answer ~~. I have never felt this way. Sam tells me it’s ‘nothing’~~ At least he let me look after his nose, which wasn’t broken.

December 04, 2016.

What monster have I created. Mary, Mary, it’s my fault. If only he’d fight _me_ , beat _me_ , but he just laughs at me, so bitter and hateful. Worse than any fist, any knife.

Dean is rotting. Nothing can touch him.

December 28, 2016.

Just left the house, forgot my coat. It’s been snowing in Kansas for days now, but I had to get out. The sounds from upstairs make me sick. I want to help, but how blasphemous can a man be, Mary? I’m at fault.

December 29, 2016.

Finally got a bed at the hospital for Sam; we’ve been waiting for five hours, God. I should have stayed last night. And all he asks for is Dean. Where Dean is, is Dean okay. I don’t have and don’t _want_ to have answers.

January 02, 2017.

Thinking about calling Jensen. Remember I don’t have Padalecki’s number. Can’t recall our old landlord’s number.

Dean is sobbing, upstairs.

January 25, 2017.

Not today, not oh godnot today

January 26, 2017.

He’s tied to the heater now. Nothing more than an animal, kicks like a horse, spits, roars. I sit by his side though, because this is my duty as much as it is my punishment, let him rage and shout. Didn’t open the door for Sam, told him to leave when he climbed up to the window (the guts on this one, Jesus Christ). He’s my son, and I’ll take care of him. For once, I feel like doing the right thing. Something good.

January 29, 2017.

Tube feeding starts today.

February 03, 2017.

We go from crying to silence to fury. Sometimes hours, sometimes moments. He’s getting better overall, or maybe just weaker; I can’t tell. When he sleeps, he calls for his brother, and I am unable to close my eyes.

April 07, 2017.

Back to square one. If he’s been lying all this time I cannot tell. I hurt, but he needs me.

July 08, 2017.

I want to believe in what he says; God knows I do, Mary.

He’s like water, running through my fingers. All of us are more dead than alive lately, and we’re all alone.

August 22, 2017.

the beach, and you were, what, sixteen seventeen, I don’t recall the number but I recall your laugh, your hair in my face with the wind. You asked for ice cream which I then got for you just to kiss it from your mouth, do you remember?

October 11, 2017.

He won’tlet me help. Doesn’t say it but I now he means I’d just make it worse.

I’m so, so tired.

November 23, 2017.

We should just leave. I have a few contacts on the west coast, it should work. But Dean pleads no, no, always no, God his stubbornness, so very you, and it makes me so angry ‘cause I’m helpless against his eyes, and you know.

March 30, 2018.

After a talk this morning, he sleeps now. Lets me sit next to him, too. God, he’s wasted, exhausted. I wonder how long’s it been since he slept at all. Sam’ll come home in five hours, and then we’ll discss the next steps. Something like hope is tangible, now. I don’t care if it’s futile, I don’t. I’m not picky anymore nowadays.

May 27, 2018.

So today’s the day. Seeing Sam like that makes me glad we waited. Dean was right.

July 03, 2018.

They’re in love. I feel so stupid for not realizing earlier. Maybe because Dean looks at him the same way he looked at his brother, and I don’t want to think about what that means, _implies_. Many things suddenly make sense even though I never wanted them to.

August 08, 2018.

Dean is holding up well. I’m glad I took the risks I took. He looks like shit but at least he’s truly _with_ us, Mary. I have my two boys and they have each other. It’s a lot like

Sam called Jensen the other day while I kept Dean busy with the car. He says he’s fine and I couldn’t be happier.

May 08, 2019.

The winter was hard on me. The boys are good though. Dean is getting restless; I can tell he’s brooding over something. He’s never liked the life on the road. Hell, I can relate; I’ve never wanted this, for any of us... Maybe we should settle down again somewhere, soon. Make some cash, some savings, get Sammy into some school. I talked to Jensen earlier. I miss having a home when I hear how he describes theirs. The distance does us good, I can see that now.

July 13, 2019.

Now that Sam wants to stay with us, Dean is more alive than ever. He’s found us a good place. Tday ill s trt l k g f—

October 20, 2019.

Doctors are damn expensive, I’llttell you that, darling.

November 08, 2019.

Sam’s in college now. Mary, you should see him, should see how Dean’s looking at him. Things are good, things are good, Mary.

November 15, 2019.

The doc said I should see a shrink. You know, about—all of it, actually. But who has that kinda money, I tell him. _What about a diary_ he tells me. God, how I’ve laughed.

Man. Going through this thing sure does depress me. Maybe writing some more won’t hurt, huh, darling.

November 30, 2019.

Jensen ~~gave us notice of his~~ will get married. I’m happy, but unclear of what to think beyond that. _If_ I want to think beyond that. Even if he’d asked, I don’t think I could have come. I’d probably choke his brand-new husband. (More than twice his age, Jesus Christ. Hell is empty.)

We can’t tell Dean.

January 07, 2020.

When I can’t sleep, I roam around. I enjoy it as long as the boys don’t notice and lock me up or something in that league, hah. They’re worse than your mother, baby. There’s a kind of priest downstairs. We talk a bit, he’s a good man. Good at chess, too.

January 18, 2020.

I’ve lost count of these attempts. We’re cursed, when will he learn? Sit through it, accept, God, my poor child. I’m bad at protecting Sammy, too, but I try, I try. He’s grown, too. We did this to him.

April 09, 2020.

I’d like to work but they won’t let me. Do they want to see me rust and rot? I’m tired but cannot sleep. I read the books Sammy brings home for his studies. I understand most of it, actually, but once I try to talk to him about it, I can’t. I’m confused.

December 03, 2020.

Hearing them so shushed behind their door brings back memories from when Jensen was still living with us, and my head and stomach church. I chose blindness a long time ago, I guess. Better make my peace with it.

April 17, 2021.

Headaches, heacaches... My stomach hurts. When have I last eaten?

August 05, 2022.

The new meds are good. Sam and his contacts, I swear to God. A true Winchester. I have clear phases where I’m 100% here, and I spend them with my sons. We take walks, Dean andI, and as always there’s this gap, this lack of things to say because where would we even start? He’s a grown man now, and he looks too old. Sam is tired a lot. He works so hard. I don’t desver them.

May 19, 2025.

The photos from the wedding—Ilooka t them a lot. God he looks so much like you, Do you remember, baby? I wished you’d never stop smiling the way you did back then. god hes so far far away.Sammy said Jared isn’t a bad man, that he’s nice and sorry and that Jensen’s happy but god Sam’s no father he can’t understand... I want to sleep.

June 17, 2028.

I’m soproud f Dean. my dean. The new house,our house,theirs. it’s nice here, quiet. kinda hate it too but what canyoudo I guess. I have my own room ever since imoved out from my parents to live with you angel. it scares me im alone with thshadws _but_ icant complain, it’s my fault, I summoned them. try to close my eyes an see you and the boys.

July 02, 2030.

wondrin how long ill be able to write into this goddarned thing. days last forever but I cannot recall a thing

March 11, 2032.

there’s that special place in hell imin rigt now where your own childrenve to care of you like an infant. I should be glad I have them but? I’m a burden aint I boys

August 02, 2033.

I have been h r for a week (?) now? They say it will get better. Yeah sure.

December 30, 2033.

im sorry and tired. mostly sorry. The meds they have here are so different, a. tired. tired.

June 14, 2034.

theweathr s nice outside, sam took me today. I miss dean but I guess I wouldn’t wanna see myself righ now, so. ~~its okay.~~ its okoy.

September 17, 2034.

tomarydeanjensensam:

thank you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Born 1971, John was 25 when the twins were born, joined the US Marine Corps at 17 (1988), recruit training 12 weeks, rank when he left: sergeant.  
> Served in the Persian Gulf War, Operation Desert Shield, 2 August 1990 to 16 January 1991.  
> Served in Somali Civil War, Operation Restore Hope, 5 December 1992 – 4 May 1993, but returned early due to heavy nervous breakdowns.


End file.
